


blind spot

by santanico



Category: Star Trek
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Angst, M/M, Spybanging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-13
Updated: 2014-06-13
Packaged: 2018-02-04 11:14:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 55,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1777066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/santanico/pseuds/santanico
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>McCoy shakes his head and laughs. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, kid.” He has to stop for a moment at the comfort of just talking to another person. He takes a breath. <i>Dangerous</i> he reminds himself, and Jim’s eyes tell a different story. The eyes and smile of someone who has everything figured out. “So what do <i>you</i> do, now that you’ve wiggled yourself into my dark past?”</p><p>Jim takes a long gulp of his latte and shrugs. “Who knows,” he says. “I’m a freelance writer.” It sounds like a lie and he grins. “Or maybe I’m an editor. A screenwriter? I could technically be all of those things.”</p><p>McCoy frowns. “What…”</p><p>“I’m not telling you jack shit.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> in which Kirk and McCoy are spies, I wrote this about six months ago, and it's just about time it actually gets on the Internet. Many, many thanks to [restlesslikeme](http://archiveofourown.org/users/restlesslikeme/) for doing tons to help me expand this universe and make a semi-cohesive story. Also thanks to [Lena](asealuponyourarm.tumblr.com) who helped me rewrite the beginning, which was really necessary.
> 
> there's also a fanmix, which I'll link at the end of the fic (also by restlesslikeme)!

Jim stares out the window as two muscular men nod at each other and begin to carry a loveseat into the complex. He frowns, watching as a man – slightly older than him, not a worker – runs a hand through his hair and crosses his arms. Jim steps to his door and opens it to peer next door, where the men are carrying the loveseat inside. He watches and one of them nods at him, the other possibly glares, and Jim steps out into the hall and closes his door.

The two men, and Jim is surprised there are only two of them, walk up and down and up and down the stairs of the apartment complex, then down through Jim’s hallways where apartments 60-74 are located. He sits on the floor next to his own doorway, just barely out of the way, and the workers seem less and less amused by him watching them. By the fifth piece of furniture they bring up, a sturdy metal desk, they’re both scowling with shoulders slumped.

After the last couple of items, a narrow bed frame followed by a mattress, the third guy walks up the stairs behind them. He does a double take when he sees Jim sitting on the floor, cross-legged, and stares.

“Hey neighbor,” Jim says, smiling at the stranger. “Just came out to see what all the ruckus was about.”

“Um,” the guy says, looking at the movers who both give him raised eyebrows. Addressing them he says, “Thanks for all your help,” and shakes their hands in turn. They nod and one tips his hat before heading back down the stairs.

The stranger stands in the hallway and cards his fingers through his hair again, hesitating.

“No reason to be nervous,” Jim says, pushing himself to his feet. He holds out a hand and the guy takes it, though his expression is guarded, eyes narrowed. “Welcome to your new home.”

“Um, thank you,” the guy says, crossing his arms over his chest and glancing at his doors. “So you’re who’s living next door?”

“Seems so,” Jim says with a nod and a half-smirk. “I’m sure you’re very busy. I’m Kirk, by the way,”

“Oh,” the guy says and clears his throat. “I’m…McCoy.” Jim frowns and the guy gives a sort of chuckle, clearing his throat and shuffling on his feet. He keeps looking at his door, and then apologizes, “Sorry, name’s Leonard McCoy. Most people just call me McCoy,” he says and shrugs. His movements are unnatural and curious to Jim, who watches him for a moment, maybe with the intention of making him as nervous as possible. He doesn’t outwardly think of it, but still, it’s fun to watch people squirm and try to make do with themselves.

McCoy, as he calls himself, stands up straight and gives Jim a full-on look, beginning to nod. “Anyway, it’s nice to meet you – Kirk. Unfortunately I’m quite busy and have to start unloading my shi – my stuff, you know, make sure everything’s…in order.”

“Of course you do,” Jim agrees, folding his arms over his chest. He really looks at the guy, McCoy, now. His jeans are a little frayed and he’s wearing heavy boots and a loose t-shirt with a logo or something on it that Jim can’t make out underneath the jacket McCoy is wearing. “I’m sure I’ll see you around, though honestly, I don’t see many of our neighbors. We keep to ourselves, if you will.”

McCoy starts to nod, still frowning. “Yeah, yeah,” he agrees, though his voice is distant now and Jim can tell he was only barely paying attention. Jim laughs. “I’ll see you around,” he says, and heads back into his apartment, leaving the new neighbor to deal with his new apartment.

Jim heads to his laptop as soon as he gets inside, pulling up a software that Spock had announced a couple of months ago among panic of a possible breech in Underground’s security system, which had been considered flawless for years – hilariously, to Jim at least, both the main security system and the new software meant to kept field agents further protected from hackers and anyone else who might try to meddle, were a creation of Carol Marcus’, Underground’s main computer engineer. Jim smiles as he opens the software’s more basic search engine, one that combs files they shouldn’t have access to, all things considered – but Carol is more than clever. Jim smiles, proud as he pulls up two files on Leonard McCoy, though he deems them useless after a couple of minutes of skimming. Dead father, divorced, medical student, had a LinkedIn account for a couple of years but both that and his Facebook have long since been abandoned and hold no vital information. Nothing that raises any red flags, at least.

Jim closes the file and spins around in his chairs. He considers calling Carol and asking her to do a more thorough search in Underground’s main servers, but he thinks that might come off as a little paranoid. In fact, he knows that he’s being paranoid, but new neighbors are rare. The only people in the building that Jim’s even met are the woman across the hall and her cat, and a man five doors down on his left that sometimes smokes outside with him. Everyone else keeps to themselves and for the most part, Jim keeps to himself as well.

He ponders the possibilities of a new strange neighbor, but soon becomes bored. Things are just boring and he’s looking for a reason to be nervous, he assures himself.

-

“What’s your name?”

Leonard McCoy glances up to see a beautiful woman. She’s tall, young; maybe a little younger than him. Her skin is a soft shade of brown and her long, dark hair is tied back in a ponytail that sits almost on top of her head. She’s wearing a dark gray dress that hugs her body and impossible heels.

“Um,” McCoy says, turning to look at the woman standing over him. “May I help you?”

She smiles. “Chances are high that the answer to that question is undoubtedly - _yes_ \- but we all know how complicated these things can be.” She slides onto the bench next to him. They’re sitting in a hospital, near the lounge but close to the hall. McCoy shifts away from her in a miniscule movement, but it’s obvious she notices by the way she turns her body. “Listen to me closely,” she says, “your father is dead. Chances are, your mother will be soon as well.”

McCoy stares at her and swallows. “Are you threatening me?”

“Are those involved in assisting suicide innocent? Let’s not play twenty questions here, Leo.”

He stares at her. The hall is quiet, there isn’t anyone listening on them. He swallows and folds his hands on his lap, looking away from the woman.

She sits down next to him, too close on a sterile bench for McCoy to feel even remotely comfortable. He shifts and keeps his gaze down.

“My name is Nyota Uhura,” the woman says under her breath. She’s pressed close to McCoy, her thin shoulder against his despite his attempts to shuffle away. “I run an organization called Archetype.” Her mouth twists into a smile as she says it and she crosses her legs at the knee, stretching her hands out to clasp her bare knee. “We are involved in a dangerous business of protecting the world, Doctor McCoy.”

“Please don’t call me that,” he whispers, voice cracking. “What do you want from me?”

She lifts her hand and touches his shoulder with her thin fingers. There’s something about her grasp that makes him turn his head and look at her. Nyota Uhura’s brown eyes are deep and sorrowful, and her smile is sympathetic. She tucks an imagined strand of hair behind her ear and then rubs his shoulder.

“You’re my newest recruit,” she murmurs, just loud enough for McCoy to catch her words. “You should really, honestly, come with us. It’ll be okay.”

“Us?” he asks, and then, “What does that mean?”

“Don’t worry, this isn’t a kidnapping,” Uhura assures him with a smile. “You’ll be able to go home to your – wife. Yes, her name is…Jocelyn, isn’t it? And see your mother?”

McCoy shakes his head. “I don’t understand what you’re telling me.”

“I _am_ threatening you,” she says, and there’s a vibration of poison in her voice that makes McCoy stiffen in his seat, fingers clenching and nails digging into his palms. “You’re going to follow me, or you’re going to risk exposure. Risk is a nice way to say it, but let’s just make it clear – I don’t think your mother will be happy when she finds out you killed her husband.”

McCoy jolts to his feet. His hands are shaking and Uhura rises with more grace, heading down the hallway towards the front doors.

He follows her, despite every muscle in his body screaming for him to run.

-

Jim squints in the blazing California sun, shading his eyes with a hand as he looks down the street. He digs his hands into the pockets of his jacket and ducks into the shoddy bar, keeping his head down as he heads over to his favorite stool.

The bartender eyes him for a moment and then says “I.D. please,” in a stern voice, too adult for Jim’s taste. He rolls his eyes and fishes into his back pocket for his wallet, pulling out his driver’s license. The bartender grunts when he sees that Jim is almost twenty-two and then nods. “What can I get for you?” he says, reaching under the bar for a rag.

“Shot of whiskey, on ice.”

“Play it safe, kid,” says the bartender with a shake of his head, but he makes the drink and drops a glass in front of Jim. “Hard liquor’s not for everyone.”

Jim stares at him. “I’m not sixteen,” he points out. The bartender says nothing, scuffing his shoes along the floor as he heads over to the other side of the bar and begins wiping down counters. Jim watches the bartender attend to empty tables.

It’s early in the afternoon, and Jim should be sending out applications to colleges outside of California. It’s a chilly November day, but the sun still feel oppressive blaring down from its position in the sky. There’s always something comforting to Jim about dirty bars and dirty people who look at him like he’s a piece of meat.

Jim finishes his glass and swirls the melting ice around, staring at the expansive menu on the wall. It’s as he’s furrowing his brow at a word he can’t pronounce when someone slips into the seat beside him.

He glances over to see a man in a sharp suit, tie and all, and a really obnoxious top hat. Jim raises an eyebrow at the guy and expects to bartender to come down to ask if he needs anything. But the bartender is still at the tables, wiping excessively over the same surface over and over. Jim looks between the bartender and his downturned eyes and the stranger next to him.

“Hullo,” he says, greeting the stranger. “Not very good service, hm?” he says, nodding in the direction of the oblivious bartender.

The man turns and his eyes are dark and unkind. Jim frowns and clears his throat. “Can I help you?”

“James Tiberius Kirk,” the man says in a monotone. “Named for your grandfathers. Your mother, Winona Kirk, kept your father’s, George Samuel Kirk, last name.”

“Excuse me?” Jim says, feigning confusion to hide his own bubbling fear. “Look, if you knew my dad, that’s great, but he’s been dead for almost twenty-two years so if you’re lookin’ for him, he’s kind of…”

“No,” the man says. “My name is Spock.” Jim laughs out loud, a sharp snort that escapes him without though. He clears his throat but ‘Spock’s’ expression doesn’t falter. “I am not a friend, but I am an ally,” the man continues, resting his hands on the table. “The service here is actually very good,” he comments, “I told him what to do and he listened. You’ll note that the very few people in here won’t react when we both stand up and I take you out of this bar.”

“Take me?” Jim questions. His heart is pounding and he swallows. “Look, I don’t know who you are or what you want, but I don’t think I’m interested in whatever you’re selling.”

“You don’t have a choice,” Spock says in a smooth voice. “I’m telling you what you’re going to do and you’re going to obey me because otherwise you’re going to be killed. And we know where your mother lives, and we know who your few friends are, and we know who to threaten in the case that you try to fight.” Jim is shaking now. “Stand up, slowly. Walk towards the door. I am right behind you. I have a gun.”

Jim listens and as he walks out, stares at the bartender, still wiping down the table in the corner in furious motions. 

Nothing.

Jim is lead by the man in the suit down the sidewalk, unnoticed by others walking. They reach a long, black car with tinted windows and Jim is nudged into the backseat and as the door closes behind him he sucks in a breath.

Next to him is a blonde woman fiddling with what looks like a smartphone. She tucks her hair behind her ear and looks at him with a brief smile. She has blue eyes that remind Jim of his own, and her hair is an unnatural platinum blonde, cut to a perfect length at her chin. He notices her pitch-black dress that hugs her legs and waist, and the bangles around her wrists. Her nails are perfectly polished a pale, pastel pink, her lips painted a similar color. Otherwise, she wears very little make-up.

“Hello,” the woman greets, and she has an accent that Jim can’t quite place, something European, probably a British dialect. He licks his lips as she looks back at the touchscreen and pinches the image, blowing it up on the four inch screen. Jim sees numbers and figures he doesn’t recognize and lets out a breath. “My name is Carol,” she says. “I’m sorry about your ambush,” she says, then turns to smile at him. “Spock can be intimidating.”

“Intimidating?” Jim manages in a weak voice. He can’t see the front seats – there’s a barrier separating him and the woman from Spock and a possible second driver. “I don’t think that’s the word…I’d use.”

“Oh, he puts on an act,” Carol says, shrugging. “He can be very…protective.” She sighs and turns the screen of her phone off, resting it in her lap. “So you’re the infamous Jim Kirk,” she says, glancing over at him. “Your father is a renowned name around here.”

“Where is here?” he asks.

“We’re an organization called Underground, located in New York. I won’t tell you exactly where yet, but that’s where we’re headed.”

“We’re driving to New York?” Jim asks, and then laughs – as if that’s the most unbelievable thing that’s happened to him today.

“No – we’ll catch a plane in a few hours. But first we have to get out of California. It’ll be easier after that.”

“What are you going to do to me?”

“Underground is going to take care of you,” Carol says, her voice softening. “I know that you’re afraid right now, but I can promise you something – Underground is a safe place. A safer place than you’ve ever been in.” She gives him an earnest look. “From what I understand it, your father was a very dangerous man.”

“My father died in a racing accident. What the hell is dangerous about that?”

Carol gives a soft laugh and shakes her head. “Your father was a _spy_ , Mr. Kirk, and he killed people. He was an agent of Underground when it first began. And you were never meant to be born.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your mother – she was too good.” Carol sighs. “I’ve read George Kirk’s file. He was undercover, a mission that was supposed to last ten years. The _accident_ that killed your father only happened when Underground found out that your mother was pregnant. It was a little late to stop your birth, and I suppose the team at the time must have taken mercy on your mother because believe me, they’re not above killing innocent women and children.”

“You used the word _safe_.”

“Well, maybe I exaggerated a little,” Carol says, still smiling. “Your father made a mistake, and his punishment was to be expected. I’m surprised he got away with it for so long, to be honest,” she says, shrugging. “Your father was a dead man from the first time he said to your mother that he loved her, and meant it. She was only supposed to be a cover, never a real love interest. But she got pregnant, and he proposed to her and – we just found out too late.”

“Why the hell should I believe you?”

“Hmm,” Carol hums, “We can prove it.”

“I really don’t have a choice, do I?”

“No,” Carol says gently. “You really don’t.”

-

Nyota Uhura leads Leonard McCoy to a building in New York, a tall skyscraper that she claims is owned by rich investors in her “agency”, which McCoy now knows as Archetype. Uhura’s office is an expansive space with large windows almost as tall as the ceiling and white decal. Her desk is large and off-white, almost a cream color, and the only thing in the room that’s black is her leather chair.

She sits at her desk and places her hands on the surface. “Sit, Doctor McCoy,” she says, and gestures towards the two chairs in front of the desk. McCoy hesitates before sinking down. She slides a manila folder across the desk and opens it, peering down at the sheets of paper. McCoy looks away, recognizing a photo from when he had been in college. He clenches his hands on his lap and waits for her to say something.

“Now,” she says, running a finger over a line on one of stark white sheets of paper. “Your full name is Leonard Horatio McCoy. You were born in Georgia on January 20, 1979.” She looks up at him and flashes a smile. “Happy belated birthday. Or should I say, happy early birthday.” She glances back down at the sheet. “You are currently married to Jocelyn Treadway. Your father, obviously, passed away quite recently – your mother is still living.” She taps a finger along her lips and then leans her head to the side. “You never quite finished medical school, which is a disappointment. What happened?”

McCoy swallows. “I met…Jocelyn,” he says and Uhura raises an eyebrow. “Things changed.”

“And is it a happy marriage, Leonard? Do you love her?”

“I do.”

“Of course you do,” Uhura says, dropping her eyes to the paper again. She turns a page. “Four years of pre-med and two and a half years of medical school. That’s a lot of money to drop on school, especially medical school, just to quit. Even with the scholarships you earned. Internships, too. You were quite the impressive student.”

He wants to tell her in his most vicious way to shut the hell up, but he stays quiet. “You were nineteen when you started and six and a half years later, at twenty-six, you dropped everything for a woman.”

“My father was ill.”

“Oh, is that it? He lasted quite a while, then.”

McCoy stays stiff in his seat. “You’re thirty-one now and he lived five years after the illness began. You and Jocelyn are still married, though somehow I think the stress of your father’s illness and subsequent death will not positively affect your relationship with her.”

“What are you going to do with me, Miss Uhura?”

Uhura glances up and purses her lips. “You assume violence and greed from me, Mr. McCoy, and I’m a little offended. You will continue to live from your home, with Miss Treadway. You, obviously, will disclose nothing to her. Your job will not cater to violence, Mr. McCoy, but it will keep you and your wife well fed and without financial burden. Perhaps you could even return to medical school. Your grades were phenomenal, you’re damn near a genius, don’t you think? Set out a nice plan for yourself.”

“I’d hardly say that’s relevant,” McCoy grits out.

Uhura smiles. “But you have such the air of a surgeon,” she says, and turns another page, eyeing the information. “Anyway, everything looks to be in order. You really shouldn’t worry yourself so much. I’m not going to be sending you out on kill missions.”

McCoy takes a breath. The other option is jail, and that doesn’t seem much better. “Really?” he asks

“Well, not yet. Maybe in a year or two.”

McCoy closes his eyes.

-

Jim’s only comfort is that Carol plays the role of his mentor. He is introduced to other recruits, some younger than him, many his age, a handful older. Others are in what Jim considers the more ‘elite’ like Carol, within Spock’s inner circle, protected and allowed to live outside of Underground.

Carol, he finds out, is the honorary hacker, engineer, and computer technician of Underground. Jim admires her at first sight; she’s _smart_ and she doesn’t pretend to be anything but. Carol slips him little notes and sends him reminders of where he has to be and when, which, Jim determines, really does make becoming accustomed to Underground’s situated bunker a lot easier. He’s sure he’d been eaten alive in the first week if it weren’t for Carol Marcus.

He hasn’t seen sunlight in three weeks when Carol offers to go get coffee with him.

“Am I allowed to do that?” Jim asks, glancing over his shoulder as if someone might be watching them. The training has been almost one-hundred percent physical, fighting and working on various skills; guns, physicality, basic computer hacking. Jim is better with the physical stuff than anything else, and he always feels a little close to being yelled at (or worse) when he hesitates on the computer.

“I have clearance,” Carol explains as they head down the hall towards the public lockers. “And I’m dying to have coffee with someone I can actually talk to. You don’t really know Spock but he’s not exactly the most pleasant company,” she says, shaking her head.

“Carol,” Jim stars, though he isn’t sure if he should really ask the question. “Do you think – how long have you been here?”

She raises an eyebrow at him and tosses him a key from her small purse. “Open locker 247, there’s civilian clothes that you can wear so you don’t look like you just came back from the gym.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” he says, but heads to the locker. He starts to change and Carol turns around. “What? Am I not cute enough for you?” he asks, pulling off his sweatpants and socks and putting on the pair of clean jeans.

“Shut up, Agent Kirk,” she says in a sharp whisper. He can’t tell if she’s serious or not but he falls quiet and dresses the rest of the way.

“I’m ready.”

Carol turns around and shoots him a brief smile before saying, “Almost five years,” and spinning on her heel back towards the door. Jim jogs to catch up with her, relieved to be dressed in jeans, though they’re a little loose on him, and a t-shirt. “You’re going to need an actual jacket. It’s not as warm here as it is in California.”

“Uh huh,” Jim says, trailing after her. “Five years? How long has this place been around, anyway? And how, exactly? It’s not legal, it can’t be. You guys fuckin’ kidnapped me.”

Carol shoots him a sharp glare. “Don’t get yourself killed,” she warns, pointing a finger at him. “Look, I wish I could tell you the truth, I wish I could tell you everything…” She pauses as they step through the cafeteria and Jim tries to ignore the eyes of the other trainees and recruits as they stare at him and wonder how he’s so special. “…but I cant.”

“Well, that’s not vague at all.”

She tuts and rolls her eyes. “Don’t be so childish. You’ve been given an opportunity. And I know it’s a shitty opportunity, Jim, because it wasn’t exactly my first choice either, but it’s what’s been handed to you and it’s better than death.”

“Is it, though?”

Carol sighs and looks over her shoulder at him. “I promise it is,” she says softly as they step into an elevator. She swipes her keycard and sends them up the ground level. Jim is starting to vibrate under his skin with excitement. He can’t believe he hasn’t seen the sun in half a month, and he taps his foot to try to relieve some of the energy. “Calm down,” Carol hisses. “You’re like an excited puppy and it’ll be impossible to keep you on a leash like this.”

Jim grins. “You’re taking me on a walk, aren’t you? So I don’t over-energize and lose control?”

“Hmm, have you been listening to our meetings? That’s a little too close to the reality of the conversation I had with Mr. Scott.”

“You talk about me with Scotty?” Jim says, feigning excitement. “I’m honored.”

“Shut up,” Carol says with a quiet laugh. “And get ready for some real coffee.”

Jim watches her for a moment out of the corner of her eye, and as they exit the elevator, he follows in her footsteps. He doesn’t know the area, has no way of knowing where he is anyway but he glances around the large lounge-like room they step into for the few seconds before Carol reaches the front door and pulls it open.

“Carol,” he says, “One more question.”

Carol glances over her shoulder at him and as he looks at her dress and heels he feels suddenly underdressed. 

“What?”

“How’d you end up here?” Carol stops for a moment, seems to almost hover on the pavement. Jim watches her blink and then set her chin and shoulders back.

“I said, let’s get some coffee, okay? No more questions.”

He watches her again before she starts down the street and he keeps up at a quick pace. “Yes ma’am.”

-

After his move in, McCoy pushes boxes around his apartment and fills his refrigerator with whatever he had packed. He determines that he’ll visit the supermarket tomorrow and maybe buy something for his currently bare walls so he can feel less like someone who’s just moved in. It’s later that night when he hears a knock on his door.

Frowning and contemplating for a second who it could be, McCoy unlocks the door. It’s – Jim Kirk. Which is odd. He blinks and hesitates. “Hi,” he says and Kirk nods.

“Hi to you too,” Kirk says before he takes McCoy’s hand and opens it palm up. McCoy has to fight the violent urge to pull back and punch Kirk in the face but the hostility turns to curiosity as Kirk pulls a click pen from his jacket pocket. He scrawls out seven numbers onto McCoy’s palm. “That’s my number. You can text me or call me whenever you want, if you need any neighborly help or anything. I can show you around the neighborhood, get you introduced to New York.”

Kirk lets go of his hand and it drops to McCoy’s side. “Excuse me?” he says, taking a deep breath to keep his voice from shaking. Jim Kirk, who’s supposed to be dangerous, is smiling at him, blue eyes crisp. “I…I don’t know you very well.” It falls flat and he winces.

Kirk just laughs. “Of course you don’t. That’s why I’m giving you my number. You can call it if you want to know me a little better.” There’s a pause, a beat between his words and McCoy isn’t sure if he’s imagining the tension or if Kirk is being serious. “Or you can leave it. I don’t know how else to get to know you if I don’t spend any _time_ with you.” Kirk doesn’t make any move to enter the apartment, instead stepping back and bowing his head slightly. “It’s your choice,” he says, and McCoy narrows his eyes and frowns. “I’ll be seeing you, regardless.”

McCoy nods and waves his unmarked hand in an awkward good-bye and steps back into his apartment as Kirk heads down the hall. He hears footsteps and glances down at his palm at the phone number. Likely Kirk’s personal number, similar to the one that McCoy has. A cell phone allotted to dealings _not_ having to do with work.

He considers the digits and then heads into the kitchen, reaching into a drawer for a notepad and a pencil. He scratches the number onto the top and underlines it, thrusting the pad back into the drawer and then washing his hands thoroughly.

Three months ago, Uhura had approached him with a mission plan.

“His name is Jim Kirk,” she says, slapping down a file on her desk. McCoy settles into the chair across from her with more ease than he had in previous years and frowned. “James Tiberius Kirk is his full name. He is the son of George Samuel and Winona Kirk, both residents of California. He is almost twenty-six years old. He is a known – well, I use that word lightly – assassin and spy for a place known by a select few as Underground. We don’t have much info on him, such as where he went to school if he went at all, if he has any siblings, though I believe he doesn’t, and what assassinations exactly he’s been a part of; files were wiped years ago, upon recruitment I assume. But those aren’t really important things.”

McCoy raises an eyebrow when she pauses and looks at him. “What is important?” he prompts her and she smiles.

“What’s important is that he’s vulnerable, which is…rare. The fact that we got his information with a quick search is similarly rare, but I’m of the belief that there is little to be suspicious about. Our programming has become more in depth; more energy has been spent trying to track down our…enemies. In particular, agents under a man Spock.” She slides the file over to him, crossing her legs. McCoy shuffles and picks up the paper, squinting at the photo of a much younger man – sandy blonde hair, bright blue eyes, a jaw that just wasn’t quite right. 

“Why?” McCoy says, setting the file down on his lap. “And what do you want me to do about it?”

“Look, McCoy. You’re part of my team because you’re ambiguous. You don’t raise suspicions. You don’t show up in searches of your name, sans simple things. You haven’t done anything to change the way you’re viewed by the public, pending the divorce.” McCoy flinches as she says that, resting back in the chair. “Don’t be a child, you and Jocelyn were questionable to start. The fact that you two lasted this long under the pressure you’ve been through is rather amazing.”

“I tried,” he says, but he knew his voice was weak. Uhura just shakes her head.

“That’s not really important, to be honest,” she says bluntly. “The point is, I’m putting you on this mission because you won’t raise any red flags.” She points at him. “You’re the sharpest tool I have right now, my second in command, almost.”

“Oh?” McCoy says, sitting up. “Never knew you gave me that much credit.” Uhura laughs.

“It’s an exaggeration, I’m sure you know. But I trust you.”

“So what am I actually doing for you?”

“You’re infiltrating Agent Kirk’s home. He lives in an apartment not too far from here. He’s young, but I believe he’s in a position of power at Underground. He’s recognized for his talent. It’s…it works similarly to your situation, I assume. Most agents literally live in a bunker, underground; hence, the name, according to my research. There are a select few special agents who slip under the radar and are given new identities and placed into homes where they are tracked in different ways, much like you are. You kept your identity, but maybe soon you’ll be interested in erasing it.” McCoy clears his throat and gives Uhura a weak glare that she returns with a shrug. “Sorry. Anyway. It’s accessible, the apartment that Agent Kirk lives in.We’ll be able to move you in within a couple of months. That will give you time to study, come up with a cover story for your move and fill me in, and get adjusted to a new life.”

“A new life?”

“You’re divorced, so you had to move out anyway, yes? I heard the agreement was sticky.”

McCoy sighs. “It didn’t go down as well as I’d hoped,” he admits, and wonders how he had fucked up everything in his life so badly. At this point, it seemed much too impossible to revert to the way things had been. He isn’t sure he wants to. “But we did come to a settlement after some time, and yes, I’m currently…staying at a hotel.”

Uhura gives him a bright smile. “Then this should be a step up from that. It’s a nice complex. And there’s an empty space right next to our little friend, Agent Kirk.” She gestures for the file and McCoy hands it to her. “I will get what I want,” she says, but she isn’t looking at McCoy anymore, instead gazing at the file and beginning to smirk. “Do you accept?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Not really.”

“Then yeah, I’ll do it.”

-

Jim runs into the strange new neighbor called McCoy at the grocery store a couple of days after he moves in. They actually bump shoulders, which isn’t Jim something does frequently, and they both do a double take when they see who the other is. “Hey,” Jim says first, cocking his head to the side. “I didn’t pen you for a whole foods kind of guy.”

“Um,” McCoy says, lifting his red basket and shaking it slightly. “Just getting a few staples.” Jim glances at the basket and sees organic milk, eggs, and bread – almost too quintessential.

“I shop here frequently,” Jim says, though it isn’t completely true. He shops at the organic foods mart three blocks from the apartment complex maybe once monthly. “Good food.”

“Uh,” McCoy says, starting to step around Jim. “Well, have a good…day.”

Jim grins. “You too,” he says, turning on his heel to watch McCoy head in the other direction. McCoy’s pace gets faster, but at least he’s not quite running away. Jim wonders if he’s really that intimidating but just laughs and shakes his head as he heads down the aisles and begins to check on what else he needs, throwing items into his cart and not thinking too much about what he picks. What’s always fun is choosing foods at random and determining what’s disgusting, what’s delicious, and what takes way too long to prepare.

Shopping goes well and he heads back to his apartment with very little on his mind. He checks his casual e-mail account, his private e-mail, and both his phones – but there’s only radio silence. He frowns, as he scrolls through old e-mails and tries to remember the last time Spock had even contacted him – he really isn’t sure and he leans back in his chair at his desk as he tries to recall.

He opens up a text message to send to Carol, from his personal phone to hers. He pauses for a moment to think about what he should say and ends up tapping _met a new guy from next door. not sure if should trust. ideas ???_ Carol replies a few minutes later with a _lighten up, kid the whole world isn’t out to get you. ;)_ He frowns at the phone and gets up to make something to eat and put away the rest of the groceries.

Shopping for one is easy enough. He hums to himself as he tucks things into the cupboard and the refrigerator, shifting different foods and bottles around to make room for the rest of the new stuff. Jim trusts Carol because through everything, he felt she had been the only who had really been honest with him. Which isn’t to say that Spock was a total liar – except that he was, and there was no way around that. So when she says he’s being paranoid, although he hesitates, he believes her more than anyone else who might tell him the same thing.

Leonard McCoy, whoever he was, interested Jim. His expressions rarely betrayed him, so Jim wasn’t sure how to read the guy – except his looks of surprise and intrigue that filtered past the confusion every time he looked at Jim. Maybe that was his default expression though. A new neighbor is something exciting that’s happening while the rest of the world feels slow and dull. Spock hasn’t called with any new missions and that speaks to a lull in work at the very least. Which should be a good thing, Jim thinks, but isn’t sure.

One small issue about not being able to read McCoy is knowing whether or not he’s interested in Jim’s more subtle advances. Jim admits this might be a problem in his own personal design as opposed to McCoy being unable to pick up hints, but Jim can’t help that he’s a flirt with a streak of confusing others. But girls _liked_ that, and, as far as Jim had learned, so did most guys. Interpersonal work relationships, as Spock referred to them, were not allowed – and engaging them was punishable in cancellation of one’s person, which was just a nice way of saying death. Which isn’t to say that Jim hasn’t had sex, it’s just been under the radar. Still, since moving out of Underground and into a personal apartment, Jim has realized he misses touching. One night stands aren’t the same and Jim’s interest in such has depleted; maybe because living alone makes him crave some kind of real connection. He misses kissing and fucking and exploring someone’s body for the first time.

Still, if Leonard McCoy were interested, Jim would be willing to engage, even if only for one night.

-

After receiving the order to infiltrate Agent Jim Kirk’s life from Uhura, McCoy had only contacted one person and talked to them about the case in detail. That person was an agent named Hikaru Sulu, who had a past that McCoy never quite understood and didn’t think he was ready to understand, in any case.

“The divorce is being finalized,” McCoy says, sipping his cup of coffee. 

Sulu sighs and nods. “That’s rough. Never fun. What’s Uhura got to say about it?”

McCoy laughs and shakes his head. “Not much,” he admits, frowning. “She manages to be an enigma, even now, but I think she’s…pleased.”

Sulu gives a soft laugh, leaning against the kitchen counter. A break room seems odd, but it’s more like the lounge in the building where Uhura’s office is. Coffee, a nice refrigerator, even a table. Now, it’s only Sulu and McCoy sipping coffee too early in the morning, Sulu because he’s got a meeting with Uhura and McCoy because he’s been here all week, almost two weeks now, gathering information and planning his move in. 

“She’s tough to crack,” Sulu admits. “What’s she got planned for you, exactly? I get the sense you have an upcoming mission, but you’ve mostly been M.I.A. for what, the last month or so?” McCoy can feel Sulu looking at him and he shifts his weight between his feet, clearing his throat. “You’ve been quiet. Haven’t been around the compound much. I expected to see more of you after the divorce, but…”

“I’m moving in somewhere new,” McCoy says, breaking the incoming question regarding his well-being. “So I’ve been preparing, to move in, yeah. It’s an apartment not too far from here, about twenty-five minutes? It’s a drive away.”

“Oh, really?” Sulu is looking at him with an expression that resembles suspicion and doubt, eyebrows furrowing together and mouth downturned. He sets his empty mug of coffee down but doesn’t move to get more. “And why’s that?” The inevitable question.

“A mission,” McCoy admits. “I’m supposed to be moving into an apartment next door to someone that Uhura wants…out of the picture, I think. She hasn’t exactly made it crystal clear what’s going to happen, or what she expects from me, but as I understand it, there won’t be any happy endings.”

Sulu is silent for a moment, frowning and considering. “I don’t think there ever are happy endings,” he says and McCoy nods. “You know, you can tell me what’s going on. My lips are sealed.”

“Are they now?” McCoy says under his breath, leaning back and sipping his coffee.

“Don’t tease,” Sulu warns, but he’s smiling now and so is McCoy. “Look at you,” Sulu says, waving a hand in McCoy’s direction. McCoy raises an eyebrow at him. “You’re smiling. You look genuinely happy. It’s a good look for you. Beats the scowl.”

“I don’t…” He trails off and – “I don’t scowl.”

Sulu laughs and McCoy shakes his head. “What I just saw could only be described _as_ a scowl,” Sulu says. “Maybe a grimace. Something unpleasant, anyway. You should laugh more often anyway. It lights up your entire face. Makes you easier to be around.”

McCoy tries to hide the twitch of his mouth. He’s been conditioned to be somewhat embarrassed by the action, but Hikaru Sulu always seems to draw it out of him. He closes his eyes for a moment, hesitating but enjoying the peace that surrounds him. He knows it won’t last.

“McCoy.”

He looks up and catches Sulu’s hard gaze. “What?” he asks, unable to help the frown.

“You can talk to me,” he says softly, and steps into McCoy’s space to squeeze his upper arm. “I know it sometimes seems like there’s no one to be trusted, and you don’t have to, but…I want you to know. I want you to know. Even if you don’t believe me. Especially,” he grits out, “if you don’t believe me.”

They share a moment of silence. The tension is fitting, McCoy thinks, all things considered. The lives they lead, the paths they take, have criss-crossed together in ways that aren’t exact enough for it to be simple. McCoy feels a rush of shame and looks away. Sulu steps out and lifts his mug before setting it down on the counter.

“Sorry,” he says in a low voice. “I’ll see you when I see you, then? You moving in soon?”

“I am,” McCoy says. “I’ll…keep you updated.” They share a glance and Sulu gives a half-smile.

“Thank you. Stay safe.” It could just be a normal warning from anyone else, but coming from Sulu, it repeats in McCoy’s head as Sulu walks out like a mantra. _Stay safe stay safe stay safe_. Don’t take any unnecessary risks because risks involve bloodshed and no one wants that.

Well, most people don’t want that. He appreciates the solidarity that Sulu offers him because no one else is ever going to give him that chance. He watches as Sulu heads down the hall towards the elevator and he finishes his coffee in the next few minutes, pops a bagel into the toaster, and wonders how the hell he ended up here.

-

Jim wakes up on his twenty-sixth birthday at five a.m. to birds cheeping loudly outside of his window. Which isn’t exactly an uncommon thing, but that it woke him up is annoying. He tries to sleep again, because birthdays always drag on longer than they’re meant to even when they don’t matter, but the birds don’t shut up and there’s no way to insulate the window next to his bed any better. He ends up pulling on a pair of sweatpants, grabbing his phone, and heading into his living room. He throws himself onto the couch with a heavy sigh and starts checking his e-mail through drowsy eyes.

Nothing. He throws the phone on the table and lets out another breath. The couch is comfortable enough, but as he stretches he becomes more and more in tune with himself and aware that he’s definitely not sleeping any time soon. He rolls onto his side, grabs the remote, and turns the local news on, setting the volume on low. He watches as a woman paces across the screen and gestures behind her at the incoming weather forecast, but he mostly just reads the bottom row with the temperatures for the weak.

“Great,” Jim mutters, “sunny skies until Friday and then rain.” Beautiful weather for his birthday. He rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling. His apartment is nice enough, he knows, and in reality he _is_ lucky to be there. Underground had its pros and cons, but it mostly had its cons, and living there was exhausting – day in, day out, a bootcamp for teenagers and people in their early twenties who had fucked their lives up beyond repair. Not people not Jim. People who were being threatened.

Well, Jim thinks, stretching his arms above his head. Twenty-six years since his birth. Twenty-six years since the death of his father. Five years since he’s seen his mother. In ways, he was threatened. Not outwardly as much, but Spock and co. had made it clear that Jim was never going to see his mother again, that circumstances were not in his favor and that if he wanted his mother to even remain alive – he would have to cooperate.

Jim sighs, looks back at the TV. Someone else is talking about local news, the weather off for now. He begins to channel flip, stops on Discovery and lets MythBusters reruns run quietly in the background.

He gets up maybe an hour later after dozing and pours himself a bowl of cereal in the kitchen. He eats alone at the table and contemplates going to the gym, just to have something to do. Otherwise, the day is going to be excruciatingly slow.

He finishes his breakfast and checks his phone again. It’s not even eight yet. He settles down at his laptop on the desk in the corner and checks his e-mail, both private and public. He has a message from Carol about possibly meeting to go to breakfast or lunch later that week to celebrate but otherwise – slow. Quiet. Suspiciously quiet. He’s used to being checked up on, people surrounding him with questions and notes about his day.

He doesn’t have a Facebook to check. Even if he did, there’d be no friends to wish him happy birthday. He sighs and gets ready to go to the gym, packing a duffel bag and grabbing his phone and a pair of headphones. He unlocks the phone and opens the music player to pick up something to set the mood.

As he heads downstairs he feels his mood lifting; it’s still early and he can do whatever the hell he wants. He’ll call Carol later and maybe they’ll go out and maybe not, it’s all irrelevant. 

He stops at the end of the stairs when he sees Leonard McCOy sitting outside against the brick wall, a cigarette between his lips. He’s hunched over himself, not paying attention to his surroundings, and Jim pauses for a split second, considering his options. If he says hello, he builds rapport – with someone he doesn’t know, but someone who could still potentially make a lot of things easier for Jim. Or he could dive on past and jog down the street and leave the mostly-stranger unaware.

Unsurprisingly, McCoy looks up as the door swings shut with a clunk. Jim forces a smile. “Good morning,” he says, but his own voice falls flat and he shifts to pull his bag up further on his shoulder. McCoy blows smoke and watches him for a minute without responding. Jim notices that the hand he’s holding the cigarette in is clean – no hasty phone number still written there. Jim smiles.

“Morning,” McCoy finally says, taking another drag of the cigarette and sighing it out. Jim hesitates again, knowing he could say _gotta run_ and gesture to his bag and jog off, but instead he leans against the rough brick wall and then settles down in a crouch, too close to McCoy, who notices the sudden proximity and turns to frown at Jim. He even squints, eyes confused and a little suspicious.

Jim plays up a big smile, knows it’s one of the best ones yet. “Mind letting me have a drag?” he says and McCoy presses his lips together before passing Jim the cigarette. Jim takes a drag and then passes it back, blowing expert rings that McCoy watches quietly. “Sorry. Just showing off,” Jim says with the last breath as the smoke rings fade away with the breeze. He’s an expert, and he loves it. Flirting is fun, and he hasn’t done it in ages.

“How old are you, anyway?” McCoy asks, coughing to the side and then stubbing out the cigarette in the pavement. “You barely look twenty-one.”

Jim laughs, and this time it’s genuine. He lets his bag slide down and land on the ground, and he sits more comfortably, cross-legged in his sweats. “I’m twenty-six.” He sucks in a breath, blinking rapidly before he adds, “I just turned twenty-six today.”

McCoy frowns at him and raises both eyebrows, opening his mouth and pausing for a second. “What?” he says, and there’s an edge in his voice that isn’t quite right, a confusion that doesn’t belong to a stranger. Jim shoots him a sharp frown and McCoy settles, repeats himself, “Sorry, what?”

He rubs his lips together, realizing they’re dry and chapped, unpleasant to be kisses. “It’s…my birthday,” he explains, running a hand through his hair and leaning his head back against the brick. “Twenty-six years ago, today, I was born.” He leaves out a lot of the added details, like that it’s also the day his father was killed. He’s stuck on his birthday, on how strange it feels every day, on how he hasn’t seen anyone in his family in years. It feels wrong, every year. He glances back over at McCoy, who offers his hand again.

“Happy birthday, kid,” he says, and his voice is soft and low and almost dangerous. Jim frowns at him and then takes his hand, giving it a squeeze before letting go. They both drop their hands simultaneously. “So,” McCoy says, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket and getting out another cigarette and a lighter. He holds the cigarette between his lips and flicks the lighter in front of him. Jim finds himself staring; a natural reaction. He glances back down at his hands. As McCoy lights the cigarette and takes a drag, he finally says, “Doing anything special?”

Jim thinks about his bag. “Going to the gym,” he admits. “Though it isn’t really anything special. Not even a plan, you know, just a routine.”

McCoy is looking at him again, eyeing his arms. Jim grins and flexes on instinct, eliciting a smirk and then a chuckle and a head shake from McCoy. “You know,” Jim says, “I was going to wait for _you_ to call _me_ \- I’m not one for making plans – but…” He trails off and looks back at McCoy, gauging his reaction. “Maybe when I get back, we could go get that coffee?”

McCoy eyes widened and Jim watched as his facial muscles twitched and his mouth opened. “Oh.”

“There’s a place down the street, a local joint, you know. Not a Starbucks. Not that I have anything against Starbucks.” He shrugs, and part of him knows he’s putting on an act, playing up his personality for a stranger, to test the waters – but there’s a part of him that means it as well, that wants Leonard McCoy to say yes and to wonder who he really is and to eventually find out. There’s a part of Jim Kirk that wants to be recognized. That doesn’t want to be afraid. And McCoy has that sort of gruff attraction about him, an older look that chisels out his features – he isn’t built in the way some guys are, but he isn’t stick-thin either. He’s hard for Jim to pin down.

McCoy lets out a snort and shakes his head. “It’s too early for this,” he mumbles and Jim doesn’t quite know what that means but he lets it slide, instead waiting for a better response. “How long will you be out?”

“Two hours, max,” Jim says, grinning. He stares at McCoy’s profile for a long moment and then licks his lips. “Is that okay? Can I meet you here in two hours?”

McCoy turns again to look at him and nods before letting out another short chuckle. “You payin’, kid?” Jim laughs this time.

“Sure, why the hell not. It’s only my birthday” He stands up then, pulling his bag up over his shoulder. “See you in two hours,” he says like a promise, and starts back down the street towards the gym. He can almost feel McCoy’s eyes burning into his back, and there’s satisfaction in knowing that his ass is that hard not to look at. He’s careful not to swing his hips _too_ obviously before he turns the first corner.

-

Leonard wonders what the boy’s angle is. Though Jim Kirk isn’t exactly the normal definition of a “boy”, far from it, in fact, McCoy can’t think of him as much else. On one hand, McCoy gets the sense that this kid is suspicious of him already, and he can’t lay any blame there. But on the other hand, he’s being invited for coffee, and there’s nothing that could make Leonard mistake the shift of Kirk’s hips to be anything but flirtatious. Or the flexing of those arm muscles.

Stupid. Really fucking stupid.

“Fuck,” McCoy whispers, pressing his shoulders to the brick and dragging on his cigarette. His mouth is dry and the anxiety of his situation is already bringing back the bad habit he had meant to have ditched after the divorce. But he can’t find a good enough reason to say no to the smoke that settles in his lungs and leaves him with a deep comfort, soothing those fears he thought he had left behind years ago.

Jim Kirk is terrifying in his own way. It’s the zealous over confidence in his tone, in every movement. He’s not even slightly intimidated by McCoy, who has age on him by far. But age really means nothing, McCoy knows – experience does. And according to Uhura, Jim Kirk’s experience is what makes him a foe. His awareness, and his ability to dupe others. The truth is that McCoy has known men like Kirk, men who have their lives so meticulously organized that everything about them is a shield. McCoy hasn’t known them well, per se, but he’s known of them – they’re the kind of men that Uhura treats like legends, like goldmines that deserve the most attention and praise.

They aren’t the ones she trusts the most, however. McCoy knows _that_ from experience as well. Uhura trusts men and women who stay by her side and who never make a sound. Killers make lots of noise, whether they want to or not. Silencers can only go so far in keeping things quiet and sometimes shit goes down; it’s the price of the job. Which is why people like Agent Kirk are replaced yearly and sometimes they live and sometimes they don’t. Agents like Kirk are important, but they’re rarely permanent. They’re too dangerous to be permanent, too quick to go rogue and leave their handlers.

Sometimes McCoy can hardly fathom what his life has become. How he can question a stranger, and himself, without blinking an eye.

Regardless, there’s always a change that Agent Kirk is aware of McCoy’s identity already and is simply surveying him and finding his weaknesses. McCoy measures the possibility, between Kirk’s awareness and the guy just being a flirt who can’t keep it in his goddamn pants. Every time he takes it into consideration, both options seem equally likely. He just doesn’t know enough about who Kirk is to make the final call, not yet.

Uhura had told him to give it time, not to rush the mission because what he needed, more than anything, was to be seamless. McCoy hardly feels like a real person anymore, so blending in like a ghost might sounds easy enough.

He stands up, finishes the cigarette and drops it onto the pavement, stubbing it out with the toe of his black lace-up boot. He heads back inside, up to his apartment. He pauses in front of Kirk’s door and glances around. There aren’t any security cameras on this floor, just a couple in the lobby, and McCoy steps close to the door and jiggles the handle. It stays still so he reaches into his pocket, digs around in his jeans for the paperclip he remembers pocketing the other day after he had unclipped some forms. He hasn’t touched it since. He rubs the metal between his fingers and glances both ways down the hall again, but there’s no one to be seen and he doesn’t hear anyone at home. Maybe a little spooky, but a good thing. He bends the paperclip accordingly and jiggles it into the lock. He lets himself focus for a moment, remembering what he’s learned and what he’s practiced over the years and the paperclip scrapes and twists and then there’s a soft _click_. McCoy lets out a hiss of breath and grins, jiggling the handle again.

This time, it’s loose. The sense of pride declines swiftly when he has the realization that this may well be the first, and consequently last, time he enters this apartment. There’s no guarantee that Kirk is going to be gone for a full two hours, no guarantee that he didn’t forget something and won’t run back to his apartment and catch McCoy rummaging through his drawers. There’s no guarantee that McCoy won’t get shot and then buried in an unmarked grave in Sweden. Then again, anything is possible

He opens the door with a sharp breath and slides into the apartment, pressing it gently shut behind him – he makes a mental note to grab a tissue before he leaves to wipe off the fingerprints, because nothing is a guarantee in this life. He gives the apartment a cursory glance, taking long and slow strides across the room and entering the kitchen. The setup is similar to his own apartment, a kitchen in the front past the foyer, small but usable, still nothing to scoff at. There’s another hallway and two doors which McCoy assumes are the bedroom and bathroom, though it’s possibly just a closet. He peers down the hallway but doesn’t risk heading that way. Not yet.

He calculates for a moment in his head – it’s only been about a quarter hour since he watched Kirk half-jog down the street to the gym. By Kirk’s own estimate, he has approximately two hours, give or take. That’s enough time – he takes a deep breath and composes himself. He’s been on missions again, and he’s trained for this kind of work, regardless of what Uhura’s put him through.

Theoretically, he knows exactly how to go about a person’s bedroom, their entire home, without leaving a trace.

He also, theoretically, knows the ins and outs of brain surgery. But that doesn’t mean he’s comfortable doing it quite yet. McCoy swallows and steps back into the kitchen. He opens a couple of drawers, but to him it looks like normal stuff. A legal notepad with groceries scribbled on the first page. Pens, big scissors with a bright yellow handles. He notes that the place has much better colors than his own apartment, cooler tones that complement each other. He sort of wishes he lived there. There’s a softness to the light filtering through the windows on the other side of the apartment that washes through the kitchen and leaves it feeling soothing. McCoy takes another breath and lets his shoulders relax. 

He turns around, grabbing a tissue from the box on the counters and wiping where he touched the drawers as he closes them. He then steps over to the refrigerator and pulls it open, tissue still in hand. He glances in side and starts to catalogue what he sees – orange juice, bagels, cream cheese, a bag of apples, lettuce in a slightly open drawer. A packet of off-brand cheese slices and generic peach tea. Two loaves of bread, which, McCoy thinks, isn’t the smartest thing to stick in a refrigerator. A half-empty gallon of whole milk, a carton of large eggs that McCoy recognizes from the whole foods place they had bumped into each other at. He peers further into the refrigerator and notices a bottle of pills, the label stating that they’re a daily multivitamin.

He wonders why Kirk would have to have a bottle of vitamins in his refrigerator. He picks up the bottle and examines it for a moment before stepping backward and twisting off the cap, which isn’t childproof. The pills are a vibrant blue, nothing like the label on the bottle depicts them. Definitely not vitamins.

He hesitates and then decides that he doesn’t want to take the risk quite yet of stealing from Kirk. He pops the pill back in the bottle and puts it back in the refrigerator, right in the spot where he’d left it, before closing the heavy door. He’ll let Uhura know about his discovery and give himself some time to infiltrate the apartment again under a better guise. McCoy settles on rummaging through a few other drawers instead but only finds silverware and tape, nothing that piques his interest. He moves quietly into the living room from the kitchen and examines the space. There’s a setup with a large flatscreen TV, a Blu-Ray player, and a shit ton of DVDs and Blu-Rays scattered over the floor. Curiosity takes the better hold of McCoy and he crouches next to the stack of cases and eyes some of the titles. Denzel Washington flicks. _Pacific Rim_ , and then another movie with Idris Elba – he looks a little further, _Obsessed_ with Idris Elba and Beyoncé. He frowns and then laughs out loud. _Bridesmaids_ , a few older movies. Outdated James Bonds films – that makes McCoy snort. A spy with movies about spies. It should almost be typical.

He tears himself away from the stack of cases, though admittedly he finds himself curious what the complete box set of _Lost_ is doing there. He looks at the coffee table next, not expecting much – and there isn’t anything worth noting. A few magazines, a notebook that he flips through but isn’t written in. Who the fuck keeps a notebook on a table and doesn’t write in it? McCoy scoffs and glances down the hallway to the bedroom again, considers entering. He still has time.

He shakes his head. It’s a bad idea, too much of a risk for this early on. There will be other days – there have to be – so instead he steels himself and heads back to the front door. He’s still holding the tissue from earlier and he opens the door and slips out of the apartment, wiping the other side of the knob on the way out. He glances down the hallway again, but he hasn’t been caught. Likely, no one’s even seen him or heard him in the last half hour or so, he isn’t sure. He could have done more, but it’s enough snooping for one day.

He slips back into his apartment unnoticed to wait out the coffee date. He paces his apartment and checks the clock and watches TV and even takes a shower and scrubs himself clean twice before he finally puts on a clean set of clothes and walks down the apartment stairs. He’s mostly convinced that nothing can go wrong, though there’s always an off-chance. He reminds himself, again, that nothing is ever guaranteed, and that things that happen can’t be undone. He shivers, stepping outside into the light spring breeze, knowing he’s made the first step into invading Kirk’s life and privacy, and that it can’t be taken back.

Really, it couldn’t be taken back before it happened, regardless. It’s a mess he’s been caught in for some time, he knows, and pretending like it could just disappear helps no one.

As he picks his head up, he recognizes Jim Kirk’s figure jogging down the street with a bag slung over his shoulder. He doesn’t seem rushed and he smiles as he approaches. Base instinct kicks in again and McCoy reaches into his jacket for his pack of cigarettes and lighter, and lights his third cigarette for the day. Old habits die hard.

“Hey,” Kirk says, stopping in front of McCoy. “You said McCoy, right? Sorry.” He stops for a second, catches his breath and smiles. “Maybe I should call you something else, that just seems – so formal. Leo?”

McCoy manages to get the cigarette out of his mouth as he starts to hack from the spit that lodges itself in the wrong tube. He takes a minute to beat his fist across his chest and lean over, coughing loudly. Jim watches him with a half-smile.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Jim says, and he reaches out to take the cigarette still hanging between McCoy’s fingers as he readjusts. McCoy watches and glares weakly as Jim takes a drag and then tosses away the cigarette, blowing more rings into the air beside them before saying, “Leo is a hot name. It’s very powerful.“ Jim watches him and clears his throat again, not quite annoyed enough to keep glaring, instead just frowning. He doesn’t understand why this kid has such a fixation on his cigarettes and stealing them. “Are you ready?” Jim says.

McCoy nods. “And,” he says, voice thick and croaky, “McCoy is fine. At least until the third date.”

When Jim laughs, it’s harsh and short and not exactly amused, but McCoy thinks that makes sense – he hadn’t meant ti seriously. “I don’t have anything else to do,” Jim says, not responding, “since I showered at the gym. So we might as well just go.” McCoy had deduced as much from the still damp hair but he just nods.

Kirk takes the lead and McCoy follows wordlessly, watching his head as they walk down the sidewalk in the opposite direction of where Jim had come from. He finds it hard to believe, watching Jim walk with each casual step, that this guy is some kind…assassin. A spy, a killer, someone dangerous who’s been trained to watch out for and be aware of people like McCoy, to kill people like McCoy if it’s necessary. But when McCoy is around this guy, this _kid_ for Christ’s sake, the air of innocence is too blatant, too obvious, and McCoy can’t shake whatever it is that reverberates off of Kirk with such ease. It seems unnatural. McCoy knows he doesn’t have the same ease about him.

McCoy reminds himself that things are going well. He hasn’t been caught yet, and that’s always a good sign. And he’s infiltrating well enough, if they’re going on a date, no matter what the context is, friendship or romance or something in between. It doesn’t matter, because he’s succeeding. And he doesn’t feel, quite yet, that he’s being duped right back.

There’s something about watching Jim Kirk walk that just catches McCoy off guard. He doesn’t mean to stare, but it’s also hard to look away. There’s something indescribably attractive about him, an almost Hollywood vibe that he gives off without trying that wraps itself up in his confident personality. McCoy had known that Jim Kirk was good looking when he had taken his first glance as the headshot in Uhura’s file, but looking at him in movement, in dimension – there’s something unruly about Jim Kirk that doesn’t fit with the simplicity of a professional photograph. There’s something about the way he smirks and how his eyes get a little darker when he smokes and just the way his body moves that makes McCoy have to pause and wonder. McCoy sees Jim Kirk’s eyes and they feel honest, enough to make McCoy backtrack.

Except, McCoy knows, there’s nothing about Jim Kirk that’s honest. He has to keep reminding himself that the person in front of him is lethal, a government weaponized human being. Not a joke, not a college drop out. Someone likely with a streak for murder and manipulation, things that McCoy doesn’t really know or understand, despite studying them extensively. It isn’t the same as real life experience. 

And yet, he’s enthralled by it all, and he can’t help himself from drinking in everything that Kirk has offered in the short time they’ve known each other.

“Here we are,” Kirk says, breaking McCoy’s train of thought as he stops in front of a small building. McCoy nods and follows Kirk into the café, called _Margaret’s Treats_ according to the sign outside. There’s a short line – a girl on a phone babbling away, a man with a briefcase tapping his foot, and an older couple squinting at the menu board above them. McCoy and Jim get in line and if Jim stands a little too close for comfort, McCoy pretends not to notice. “What’ll you get?” Kirk asks, studying the menu from their place. They shift forward at the same time as the girl on the phone receives her coffee. 

“Not a big coffee drinker, to be honest,” McCoy says, frowning at the menu. Most of it goes right of his head. He’s been drinking coffee since middle school, but only what his dad made in the mornings. Black, no sugar, no creamer, no syrups, nothing of the sort. And it had always gone on like that. He buys his coffee from the cheapest carrier in whatever local grocery store he’s at and he drinks it out of habit instead of enjoyment. He drinks his coffee black, cheap stuff he gets from the local grocery stores. To him, it all tastes the same.

Kirk gasps, eyeing McCoy. “You mean you don’t have a double shot soy caramel latte with no foam every morning?”

McCoy raises an eyebrow, and though the words barely register meaning at first, he can’t help but ask, “Is that your order?”

“Sixteen ounce,” Jim adds, smirking. “And yes.”

“Lactose intolerant?” McCoy asks, feigning curiosity as he eyes the menu.

“No. Soy is just a hundred times better.” McCoy shakes his head but smiles.

“What do you recommend? Since apparently you know so much.”

“Well, what do you _like_?” Jim says. He steps up to order, repeats the earlier bit about some kind of latte without foam. “And for him,” Jim says right as McCoy is about to speak up and get a small coffee, no cream or sugar, just keep things the same because it’s simpler that way, “he’ll have a cinnamon mocha, small.”

The girl behind the counter nods and rings up their order. “That’ll be over to your right,” she says with a smile at the two of them as she gives Jim back his credit card. “Enjoy.”

“You a regular?” McCoy asks, glancing around the small establishment. There’s a few seats by a window, but it’s still tiny and obviously so, the tables rickety and old as well. There’s a few velvet-covered chairs in one corner, empty.

“About once a week, sometimes twice,” says Jim with a shrug. “Does that count? Is that regular enough for you?”

“Yeah, I’d say that counts. I make all my coffee at home.” He knows he has to be careful about what he reveals, but that doesn’t seem remotely dangerous. Kirk glances at him and nods. A kid not much younger than Kirk by the looks of it says, “Medium caramel soy latte with a double shot of espresso,” in a quick voice and sets down the cup from behind the counter. “Have a great day.” Jim smiles at the worker and takes his cup, beelining for the velvet chairs in the corner. Maybe his preferred spot.

McCoy waits and is eventually presented with his mocha – the barista says cinnamon and McCoy recalls the order. He sits down in the second red chair next to Jim, the only thing between them a small metal table.

“Vintage vibe,” McCoy comments, glancing around. Kirk shrugs.

“I guess you could call it that,” he says, but he doesn’t really seem to believe it. “To me, it’s just a coffee shop. A nice little place to relax, read a little, play Angry Birds.”

McCoy takes a cautious sip of his mocha, expecting to burn his tongue, but is instead greeted with whipped cream. “I didn’t know Angry Birds was still a thing,” he admits, and Jim smiles.

“Maybe not exactly,” he says.

McCoy shakes his head. “I have a hard time wrapping myself around all those…games. There’s too many. I don’t know what they’re thinking.”

“Who’s they?” Jim asks with a crooked smile that McCoy catches out of the corner of his eye. “Or is it a secret?”

McCoy chooses not to answer, considers it a throwaway bit of teasing. Kirk doesn’t seem to mind – “So, what do you do?” he asks, diving into the question.

“Uh,” McCoy says, scrambling for a moment to recover his story. “I’m a doctor, but I’m kind of…” He pauses for effect. “I’m out of a job,” he says, cringing. “The hospital I worked for before, they said they were opening shop here, you know, New York City, and that I should transfer. But I got shot down about a week ago, said they were cancelling the plans. I was already planned to move, and basically fired – couldn’t stay in Maryland even if I wanted to – so I decided to pack up and move. The apartment’s nice, and I can afford it with my savings for a few months.” He shrugs and sighs. He wishes it were true, that simple. He had practiced the cover story for months, since Uhura had given him the assignment, and he has it so down-pat that it feels like it could be reality. Maybe there’s an alternate reality in which McCoy gets divorced and moves and gets a good job in New York City and finds his soulmate and lives happily ever after.

“Interesting,” Kirk says, sipping his latte and interrupting McCoy’s daydream. “A doctor, huh? Sexy.”

McCoy snorts and tries to hide the involuntary flush of his face, biting his lip and picking up his mocha to take a drink. He hasn’t dated in ages, let alone actually flirted with someone, or rather been flirted with, and he isn’t exactly sure how to respond to the kind of bluntness that Kirk seems to enjoy, even if it’s not always sincere. Kirk could be mocking him, in all honesty, and McCoy would have a hard time telling the difference.

“Any kids?” Kirk says.

“No,” McCoy says immediately. “An ex-wife but we never…it didn’t work out. It wasn’t that long of a relationship, she…” He pauses, considers that he should keep things as close to the truth as possible. “She was very distanced, from me. Not that I blame her.” He shrugs again, a feeling of helplessness squeezing his heart as he thinks about Jocelyn. “I wasn’t a very good husband,” he admits. “Too busy. I used to come home to her and she’d just. Yell. Like I said, not her fault. I was gone for so long. And she didn’t want kids, because she didn’t trust me. Maybe she thought I was cheating on her, I don’t know.” He finishes honestly, “I hope she’s happy.”

“A doctor with a mysterious past,” Kirk muses, leaning back in his chair. “ _Were_ you cheating on her?”

“No,” he answers. Only half-true, and he knows it. His job was like a second partner, keeping him gone at strange hours. He lied to her, too, told her that he worked at a hospital and everything. She never questioned him but it exhausted her. “Well, I guess – with work, it was kind of like cheating. I certainly didn’t give her what she needed out of the relationship. And I could never answer her questions honestly. It just created a barrier and she ended up filing for a divorce and that was it. That was a few months ago, though. We’re in the past.”

“So,” Kirk says, curt. “You’re bisexual?”

McCoy blinks. He takes a moment to take a deep sip of his mocha, finally getting a taste of the bittersweet mixture of the espresso and the chocolate. “I guess,” he admits, uncertain if there’s a safe or right answer. He had dated in college, men and women and everyone in between – gender didn’t exactly function as a part of what attracted him to someone. “Why is that important?”

“Well, I want to make sure I’m not pushing any boundaries by totally hitting on you. I figured otherwise, because you accepted my offer. It was either that or you’re just blindingly and stupidly obviously.” McCoy sets down his cup to cough into his sleeve.

“You’re not pushing any boundaries,” he says. Then adds, “Not yet, at least. Not that I can tell.”

“Alright, well, just checking. That means I can make whatever moves I want, then?”

McCoy shakes his head and laughs. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, kid.” He has to stop for a moment at the comfort of just talking to another person. He takes a breath. _Dangerous_ he reminds himself, and Jim’s eyes tell a different story. The eyes and smile of someone who has everything figured out. “So what do _you_ do, now that you’ve wiggled yourself into my dark past?”

Jim takes a long gulp of his latte and shrugs. “Who knows,” he says. “I’m a freelance writer.” It sounds like a lie and he grins. “Or maybe I’m an editor. A screenwriter? I could technically be all of those things.”

McCoy frowns. “What…”

“I’m not telling you jack shit.”

“Rude,” McCoy murmurs, continues to sip his mocha. “But fair enough, I guess. I did make you pay for my coffee on your birthday.” Kirk chuckles. McCoy knows it’s all lies anyway. He settles for watching Kirk out of the corner of his eye, studying his movement and his posture. He’s sitting loosely, arms and shoulders relaxed. McCoy feels a swoop in his stomach as he remembers prowling around Kirk’s apartment. Part of it is fear – being caught would equal termination, and he’s sure of it – and the other part, oddly, is guilt.

Why does he feel guilty about sneaking on someone he already knows he can’t trust? The thought bugs him and he takes a moment, frowning to try to understand why. Nothing quite makes sense about the situation as a whole though, and he wonders, turning to look at Jim, still so relaxed, what it means about him.

But there’s nothing special about Kirk, is there – really? He’s young and he’s advanced and trained and he’s supposedly very dangerous. He’s also cocky and immature, and manipulative. He has no problem asking for information and holding himself to a higher standard where he doesn’t even have to cough up lies.

Curious.

“Thank you for the coffee,” McCoy says after a moment of tense silence – it’s tense to him at least. He shakes his cup a little and smiles. “I’ve never had a mocha before. Chocolate and espresso…I guess that makes sense.”

“And milk, and whipped cream,” says Jim in a quiet voice, almost under his breath, almost so quiet that McCoy doesn’t hear him.

“Yeah,” McCoy says, “and those things.”

“A good first date then?” Kirk asks, smirking again.

McCoy nods. “Sure. If you wanna call it that. For self-esteem reasons.”

Jim grins. “Shut the fuck up.”


	2. Chapter 2

Carol bickers with him for all of twenty minutes. “Why are you being so uptight?” she asks, and Jim can nearly hear her rolling her eyes on the other line. “And why didn’t you call _Spock_ about it? I’m not your little handmaid, Jim.”

Jim falls silent and waits – he can hear the click of Carol’s undeniably perfectly manicured nails on a keyboard. “You’re doing it, though,” he points out, cradling the phone between his shoulder and his ear. He reaches into the refrigerator to grab a bottle of ketchup, glancing at the expiration date on the cap. Best by a month ago. Figures. He shrugs anyway and turns on the stove, pouring a cup of water into a pan and putting it over the heat. “Thank you,” he adds as he goes back into the fridge to grab a packet of cheddar stuffed hot dogs.

“Oh, shut up,” Carol says, and there’s a tired snap to her voice before she sighs. “Leonard McCoy, you don’t know a middle name?” she asks.

“Nope, don’t know him that well. I only told him my name was Jim, by the way. Can I give a last name? Is that safe?”

Carol hums on the other line. “There’s nothing but fabricated data on the Internet. I mean, you have to exist, right? A fake name can only go so far.” She clicks her tongue. “I’m not…finding much,” she admits after a moment. “I mean, he exists. Not much. There’s a tiny picture from someone’s Facebook but it looks years old. An old LinkedIn profile that hasn’t been updated since 2009.” He hears her move the phone and there’s a crackle of static. “He doesn’t seem to pose a threat. There’s nothing in _our_ databases.”

“That sounds like what I found on Google,” Jim says with a sigh as he adjusts the heat and nudges the hot dog around in the slowly bubbling water. “So I can give him a last name? I mean, he’s kind of bound to find out sooner or later.”

“Is he?” Carol says, almost under her breath but loud enough so that Jim catches the sound of disdain in her voice. He can see her, in his mind’s eye, shaking her head and hiding a smile. “I don’t know, Jim. Do what you want,” she continues with a soft laugh. Everything Carol does is soft, though. “There isn’t anything accurate about you, so I wouldn’t worry about it. If there’s nothing on Google, then there’s nothing he can find. Even if he has technology like we have,” she says, and Jim cuts her off.

“And he doesn’t, because we know who made that technology.”

She snorts. “Even if he does, there’s virtually nothing. The scarcity you would expect. You’ve been erased, and expertly so because that’s what Spock and his team do. They get you off the radar.” She goes quiet and he hears her clicking again. He imagines her shaking her head as she lets out a huff of air, and he hears her tapping along again. “Don’t you think we keep our agents _safe_ , Mr. Kirk?” she questions. He almost laughs at the image he conjures of her frowning at him with a hand poised on her hip, head tilted to the right in mock agitation. He feels a pang of loneliness, remembering how she would gently smack his shoulder when he questioned her.

“So you think I’m being paranoid?” He gets out the bag of hot dog buns and turns the heat on the stove back down to low.

“Absolutely,” Carol says. She sounds certain, and that’s enough for Jim to believe her. Carol is sharp as a tack, a surefire genius that knows her way around every kind of firewall available. She could probably hack into the President’s private e-mail if she really wanted to, but her ambition doesn’t strain quite that far. Hacking into the bank accounts of super rich government officials, though? Easy. Jim can remember Carol shushing him as he had watched over her shoulder as she transferred one hundred thousand dollars from a senior investor in a top bank in Europe, and then said “That wasn’t even a damned challenge,” with a shake of her head and a roll of her petite shoulders.

Maybe Jim is just easily impressed. “So I should…what should I do?”

“What do you want to do?” Carol retorts again and he hears her let out a small sigh. “You still have to be careful,” she warns, “because civilians can be dangerous in their own right.”

“What do you mean?” Jim asks. He shakes the bottle of ketchup and grabs a plate, rolling the hot dog around in the water again before he picks it out and sets it in the bun, balancing the phone on his shoulder.

“I mean, romantic entanglements with people who aren’t involved in your line of work can lead to danger for you both. It’s not safe for your new friend any more than it’s safe for you. Has Spock contacted you in the last week?”

Jim pauses, frowning as Carol sharply changes the subject. “Who said anything about romance?” he asks at first, then follows up with, “You surrounded?” in a teasing voice. “And no. Did he say something?”

“Mm, no. I haven’t seen much of him, I think he’s been busy. Not sure what, but he’s mentioned a few things recently that have me…wondering.” Jim pays attention to the sounds on the other end of the line, Carol’s heels tapping on the floor, the voices of recruits.

“Are you in the cafeteria?” he asks. He turns off the heat and squeezes ketchup over his lunch, setting the plate down on the table and sitting. 

“I’m moving through the cafeteria,” Carol admits, and there’s more shuffling. “Look, I can’t…talk,” she says. “I’ll call you later, okay? Stay safe, and remember what I said.”

“Sure thing, Care.” He rolls his eyes as he sets his phone down when she hangs up. Though he trusts Carol’s judgment, he also trusts his own instincts, and his own instincts are telling him to go for the gold. He wants to know this McCoy guy, despite everything she had said, everything that he had been thinking.

Jim eats in relative silence and afterwards gets up, puts away the dish in the dishwasher, and steps into his bedroom to grab what he calls his Spock Issue Phone. He opens up his recent calls to double check but there still hasn’t been anything new. No texts, no messages, no e-mails. Not even a congratulations or a thank you after the last mission he had been a part of, a dinner with a known associate of a terrorist organization that Spock needed information on. Jim had been his plus-one of sorts and had snuck into the locked room and downloaded plentiful secrets to keep Spock busy for a while from a coded computer program meant specifically to keep people like Jim out. Jim learns from the best.

The mission had gone successfully, and he considers that maybe the peace is a reward for good work. He decides to leave his phone on the bedside table and heads back into the kitchen to rummage through what he has left to eat.

-

McCoy sends Uhura an encrypted e-mail about his findings from the other day. It doesn’t feel particularly helpful – just the questioning blue pills in the refrigerator – but he’s glad to have something to report to her at the very least. He receives an e-mail less than two minutes later confirming the message had been received and congratulating him for his hard work. McCoy snorts – difficult to think of this job as “hard”. It’s taking a hit on his anxiety for sure, but that’s the worst of it. He was in worse shape in medical school.

Another few minutes later as McCoy is reading personal e-mails, not that there’s much to read there, Uhura sends him another message.

_We will need an example of these “blue pills” or at least a photo,_ she writes, and he knows it’s her from the address. _They could be harmless or suspicious. Better safe than sorry. Keep looking. Remember the name – Spock – he’s the one we’re really after._ McCoy considers that for a moment. Why would Uhura have such a fixation on this man? It’s confusing enough to have to keep track of Jim Kirk, who apparently doesn’t exist on any side of the Internet that McCoy can reach. And clearly, even minimal information is available on their heavier systems back home, McCoy realizes, thinking about the thin file he had been handed.

What’s the point, he wonders. He wonders that a lot recently. Folding his arms over his chest, he considers the name – Spock – and wonders what’s so important about it. A one-syllable name that sounds like it belongs in children’s science fiction. McCoy spins around in his chair and looks at the wall. He hasn’t seen Jim Kirk yet today, and he’s feeling antsy. No one to talk to, no one to relate to. Even if he could talk to Kirk, it will always be with a lack of certainty. Always with some sort of fear, a lie. A bond between them would be forged on half-truths and nervous tics.

He pauses and then stands, circling his own bedroom. The laptop is placed on a small desk in the corner, the bed in the opposite corner. It’s not an entirely small space, comfortable enough, but it still only takes McCoy a handful of paces to get around the room.

_Blue pills_ , he thinks. He looks at his fresh gun, laying on his pillow. He usually keeps it under his pillow and it serves as both a reminder and a comfort. Out loud, he begins to muse, “The guy’s gotta have guns in his apartment, somewhere. That’s only sensible.” His own voice seems to echo and he licks his lips, sighing. He walks over to the bed and picks up the gun, a narrow pistol that fits perfectly into his palm. It’s cold and the steel feels frigid against his warm palm. He grips the gun and turns it over. “Too heavy,” he murmurs and groans, shoving it under his pillow again. He lies down and stares at the ceiling fan, bathing the room in cheap yellow light. He can feel the shape of the metal under his head, and a shudder crawls up his spine.

McCoy grabs his phone and scrolls through his contacts before he sees Sulu’s name again. It had been a while since he had really talked to the man, the only person he really considered a friend. He thumbs out a text message _call me when you have the chance no big deal just need someone to talk to_ and hits send. It feels hokey, in a way, because he feels desperate anyway. For a voice that he can trust, because those are so far and few in between. But he also knows that Sulu isn’t the type to mock. Sulu has a sense of humor and is more genuine than anyone McCoy’s met at Archetype in the many years he’s been there.

He deposits his phone back on the stand beside his bed. It’s dark gray and metal. Not exactly the most homey bit of furniture.

He rolls over, squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn’t know what has him so exhausted, and it’s only ten o’clock. Loneliness, maybe. It’s been three days since the ‘coffee date’ and he’s nervous enough to breach the topic with Kirk again, to text or call him or even just knock on his door, but it seems that it might be the only thing he can do at this point. He opens his eyes and grabs his phone again, staring at the message screen and thumbing back to the main screen. He opens his contacts – he had put “Jim Kirk” in the day he got the number, but he’s sent no messages and made no calls and, obviously, received none.

He wonders if it’s even a real number. He licks his lips and then gets up and pulls himself out of his jeans, grabbing sweats from the pile of clean clothes and throwing the jeans into the dirty ones. He leaves on the same t-shirt and heads into the bathroom to brush his teeth and wash his face.

Maybe he’s getting too old for this. He laughs at the thought, whispers, “I wish,” and crawls into bed.

When he gets up the next morning, he has a missed call from Sulu. It had rung in at almost one in the morning, making McCoy glad he had turned off the vibrator on his phone. After he gets dressed and eats, McCoy calls back.

Sulu picks up this time. “Hey, you’re finally up.”

“It’s only 7:30,” he says, sitting down on the couch. “And you called me at one, what do you expect?”

Sulu laughs. “I’m glad you got my call. It’s good to hear from you. How’s the mission?” Sulu’s voice is light and teasing.

“Oh,” McCoy says, “have you talked to Uhura?”

“ _Miss_ Uhura,” Sulu corrects, but his tone is teasing. “I knew you were leaving, you kept me semi-informed. But you know, you’re kind of high-level.” McCoy lets out a snort. “I’m serious. You’re missed. It’s like Dad being gone at this point. The recruits like you, and you’re always more fun to be hospitalized with. You’re the surgeon that helps Mom raise the kids.”

“I’m not a surgeon,” McCoy points out, “Not even close. And really? You’re calling her _Mom_ now?” He lets himself laugh though, Sulu’s voice a pleasant reminder of how much he occasionally enjoyed working there. “I don’t think she’d be very happy about that.” Sulu chuckles. “Good to know I’m missed though.”

“Uhura gave us a little more insight into what you’ve been doing. You kind of gave me the gist, but everyone else, they got filled in too,” Sulu explains after a beat and McCoy frowns, running a hand through his hair.

“What did she say exactly?” he asks.

Sulu hums. “Wouldn’t you like to know. You’re on a special case, Agent. And okay, she didn’t tell us everything, or really anyone – just a couple of us who were wondering. Like me. People she trusts farther than she can throw, you know how it is. And maybe one other person I don’t really remember. Don’t think people are _too_ interested, now.” McCoy rolls his eyes as Sulu chuckles. “She says you’re in the city, living on your own again? Which I guess isn’t so strange, I mean, New York’s a big case – she says you’re following a lead about a guy from ‘the other side’,” Sulu says, and McCoy can almost hear the air quotes. “Whatever that means. You know Uhura, she gets wrapped up in herself sometimes and says things that don’t really make a lot of sense. Anyway – ”

McCoy cuts him off with a “Hey,” and Sulu huffs. “I’m doing a job. It isn’t anything special, at least not yet. In fact, it’s almost kind of boring.”

Sulu hums again. “A cute guy, a cute guy who’s a neighbor, and who’s also an enemy, you know…sounds like the set up to a bad movie.”

McCoy pauses. “What did she actually tell you?” he pries. “Sounds like more than you’re letting on.”

Sulu laughs. “Nothing, but you just totally gave yourself away. Have you had sex with him yet? How old is he? Is he crusty, is he young, is he cute? I want all the juicy details.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be working?” McCoy grouches, rubbing his temple as a headache starts to set in. He gets up and wanders into the kitchen to grab a couple of aspirin and a glass of water. “Where are you, anyway?”

“Nowhere I’ll get caught,” Sulu assures. “I’m actually you know, on my day off. For once.”

“That’s good,” McCoy says absently as he swallows down the small pills, hoping they’ll be potent enough to get him through the rest of the day. “And fine, okay, so I’m supposed to like – befriend the guy. I don’t know him _that_ well, though,” McCoy says, trying desperately to push the attraction to Jim Kirk from his mind. “Obviously I can’t – I can’t tell you anything more than that, Jesus, I shouldn’t even tell you that much.”

“No, you probably shouldn’t, but I’m your inside man.”

“Are you in the area?” McCoy asks, trying to change the topic. 

Sulu chuckles. “Nah, but I’m sure you’ll have a _wonderful_ day, McCoy. Keep your head up, brother, don’t get too caught up in attractive and dangerous strangers.”

“I didn’t say he was attractive,” McCoy points out weakly. It’s the most untrue thing he’s said since he started talking to Sulu. “Anyway – I just wanted to see how you were, I mean, I haven’t really spoken to anyone in a couple of weeks, besides a few neighbors and like, the people who work at grocery stores,” he says, and it’s half a lie. “Which reminds me, I need to go grocery shopping again…”

“Yeah, yeah, McCoy. You do that. Grocery shop to your heart’s content and come home to your cute spy boyfriend.”

“Oh my god, shut up. You’re not even making any sense.”

Sulu snickers. “Look, I gotta go, but you can call me whenever. I’ll try to keep you in the loop too, if Uhura isn’t filling you in too much. But so far there hasn’t been a lot of excitement.”

“Good to know,” McCoy says, letting out a breath. “I’m sure I’ll see you soon enough.”

“Don’t get killed,” Sulu warns, and then hangs up. McCoy would appreciate the sentiment better if it hadn’t been followed by a short, cut off laugh. 

He does, however, write a list of groceries and head outside and down the street toward the local mart he had discovered a couple of days ago when he had been looking for a good place to shop without breaking his budget – not that his budget was really a question, he just hated overspending. He comes home with four bags of groceries, mostly freezer dinners and some fresh fruit, which he hauls up the stairs.

Jim Kirk is heading down the stairs as he heads up. They bump shoulders before they notice each other and then Kirk lights up with a smile, turning on the steps and gripping McCoy’s arm. “Hey, I was just going out to have a smoke,” Kirk says, shaking his pack of cigarettes in front of McCoy, who tries to retain his balance of bags on the stairs, one foot on a higher step and the other aligned with Kirk. “You go grocery shopping?”

“Yeah,” McCoy says, hesitating as his balance comes back to him. Kirk’s fingers are tight around his upper arm, the kind of snug grip that speaks of familiarity and intimacy, things that McCoy swears he doesn’t share with an almost stranger. “Um. Gotta put ‘em away.”

“Alright, well, if you finish I might still be outside. So I can share a cigarette and make up for stealing yours from earlier.” Kirk grins and winks as he drops his hand from McCoy’s arm and tugs a cigarette from the pack and places it between his lips without lighting up. It’s the kind of wink and movement that feels like only happens to girls in movies from the 50’s, too unreal for McCoy to fathom for more than a second. It’s the way that Jim tilts his head with it, then shakes his unruly hair out of his face. Kirk steps down one step and waves, reaching out so his fingers brush along McCoy’s shoulder – the one he had bumped into – before he starts down the stairs and heads out the door.

McCoy can’t explain the feeling that traps itself in his chest as he troops up the stairs, faster than usual, shaking as he unlocks the door to his apartment. He heads in and drops the bags on the kitchen counter, ignores that the bottles of iced tea he had bought roll out onto the floor with a thud. He can feel his breathing rattling his ribcage, too loud and too heavy, and as he attempts to straighten himself out, he steps into the bedroom. 

He thinks rapidly, considers his options. This is stupid. This is ridiculous. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to will the arousal away but it does nothing, maybe only makes it worse because now he’s concentrating on his own cock and this is so fucking _bad_. He should not be hard right now from running into someone like some goddamned high schooler.

Even his hands are quivering, and his upper arm pulses with a vague soreness from Kirk’s strong grip. It’s a moment of weakness where he gives up, gets on his back on the bed and undoes his jeans. He jerks off hastily and comes quickly, thinking about Jim Kirk’s mouth around his cock instead of his goddamn cigarettes or a bottle of beer.

It’s an exploration of something he really didn’t want to admit was there, goddammit, and it terrifies him. Still, his hands stop shaking afterwards.

-

Jim gets a call from an unknown number on his personal phone just over a week after his twenty-sixth birthday. He squints at the number and hesitates before unlocking the screen to answer.

“Hello?” he says, voice thick with sleep and suspicion.

“Hey,” says a gruff voice on the other line. Jim rolls over his bed and runs a hand through his hair, pulling the phone away from his face and looking at the screen. He groans aloud, seeing that it’s already eleven. “Um, did you just – wake up?”

Jim pushes himself up. “Is this – who is this?” he asks, rolling his shoulders and yawning. He glances at the full-length mirror on the other side of his bedroom and cards his fingers through his hair again, trying to get strands to say in place. He stands up and walks closer, rubs his hand along his scruff with a sigh. 

“It’s…McCoy,” says the voice and Jim lets out a long “Ohhhh,” followed by a laugh.

“Gotcha,” he adds, rubbing his eyes. “And yeah, I just woke up.”

“A little late for a Tuesday,” McCoy comments, and Jim tries to write off the teasing lilt in the guy’s voice. “Don’t you have a job?”

“I work from home,” Jim jabs back. The lie rolls off his tongue with easy and he hears McCoy snicker on the other end. “Don’t you believe me?”

“I don’t believe a word you say,” McCoy says, and there’s something in his voice that rings as a threat. Jim hesitates and frowns, picking a shirt off the floor and smelling it. It doesn’t have a stench so he figures it’s clean.

“Hold on a sec,” he says, throwing his phone on the bed and taking a minute to pull on a pair of clean jeans and a probably clean t-shirt. He picks up the phone. “Sorry. Had to get dressed.”

The silence that follows is hilarious to Jim, who smirks despite himself. “So, what can I help you with? I’ll add your numbers to my contacts then, since you were finally willing to share.”

McCoy hums. “I wanted to ask…if you were free today.”

“Are you asking me out on another date, Doctor McCoy?”

“Oh god,” McCoy groans, “don’t call me that. No one fuckin’ calls me that.”

“Then what should I call you?” Jim presses, stepping out of the bedroom and into the hall. “You seem adverse to Leonard.”

“Call me whatever you want, alright? Just not Doctor,” McCoy says. “And I’m not – it’s not a date.” He pauses and takes a breath and Jim waits, leaning against the bathroom sink. Admittedly, he’s curious as to where McCoy is going with this. “I haven’t finished unpacking most of my boxes,” McCoy finally says after a minute with a short laugh. “I thought – since you’re the only neighbor I really know. Would you help me? Finish unpacking. I can show you around my place and order pizza.”

“Hmmm,” Jim considers for a moment. “The pizza sealed the deal. Sounds good, yeah? What time?”

“How about five? That’ll give you some time to get up and get ready.”

Jim snorts. “I wake up looking great, it’s a non-issue. But fine, I’ll be there. Help you unpack your shit, eat your pizza. This time, you’re buying.”

“I’m hosting yeah, so that’s kind of implied.” It’s weird, Jim thinks, that he’s being called by his next-door neighbor, literally only separated by some thin wall.

“Well,” he says when the chit-chat dies off, “I’ll knock on your door when I’m ready. So be expecting me, maybe I’ll even show up early, bring some flowers…” he trails off on the muse and McCoy chuckles. “Gonna eat some cereal, brush my teeth.”

“No need to share,” McCoy says and then, “See you later.” 

The phone beeps in his ear, signaling the end of call, and Jim pockets it in his jeans, going out into the hallway and then entering the kitchen. He pours himself a bowl of cereal with soymilk and eats, staring at the wall. After breakfast he lounges, bored out of his mind – he checks his e-mails, personal and private, but all he’s got are car ads and reminders for bills that he doesn’t even technically pay out of pocket. Jim checks his work phone and there’s a text from Carol - _call me_ \- but no other signs of news. Frowning, Jim taps on Carol’s name and makes the call, wondering why she’d text him from _her_ work phone, as they usually chat on a more personal level.

She doesn’t pick up, and the call doesn’t go straight to voicemail. Carol’s voice rings in his ear, telling him to leave a message after the tone. He’s not used to reaching her voicemail regardless, but he doesn’t bother to leave a message, knowing that Carol will call him back when she has a chance. He knows that she’s busy, but that doesn’t stop him from worrying.

This time when Jim settles on the couch, he pulls up his DVR, but there’s nothing interesting recorded to make him feel more – human.

Jim closes his eyes for a minute. He thinks that maybe he can fall asleep again, but it’s too early. He throws his legs back on the floor, feet hitting with a soft thump. Stretching his arms over his head and rolling his shoulders, Jim glances around his own apartment. Maybe what he needs to do is rearrange, but that seems so…boring.

He’s antsy, he realizes, and frowns. He grabs his phone off the table again and opens his contacts, scrolling down to Spock’s number. It doesn’t have a name attached to it and he wonders if it’s safe for him to call.

The relationship between Kirk and Spock is, admittedly, tense. He knows this. He knows that Spock’s level of trust for him is based solely on Jim’s performance, as opposed to some strong closeness evolved over years. Then again, Jim can’t really imagine a universe where Spock had close relationships with anyone, let alone with himself.

He takes a breath, steels himself, and calls the number. It rings twice before a staccato voice answers.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s me,” he says, feeling urgently breathless and forgetting his own name for a moment. 

“Agent Kirk?” There’s sharpness in Spock’s tone he hadn’t expected. “Did you happen to receive a call from Agent Marcus?”

Jim is relieved they’re on the phone, making it easier to answer with a mostly lie, “No, why?” in his most sincere and curious voice.

Spock goes quiet for a moment and Jim strains to hear anything else in the background, but it’s mysteriously silent. “It’s nothing,” Spock says after a moment, not trying to hide the fact that he’s lying. Kirk frowns. “What can I do for you?”

“Well,” Jim starts, beginning to question why he made this call to begin with. He sits back down on the couch, picking up his feet and stretching his legs, ankles crossed on the coffee table. “I haven’t – you haven’t given me much to work with, recently,” he admits. “Since that last dinner. Colleagues, you know,” he says, trying to sound nonchalant. He waves his own hand in front of him, gesturing at the air. Spock, of course, doesn’t know about the gesture.

“You did well that night,” Spock says, a pleased lilt in his voice. “Aren’t you enjoying the time off?” There’s something accusatory about how he says the last bit, like he’s testing Jim’s boundaries and his restraint.

“I…” Jim trails off. “Yeah,” he admits, and his stomach gets tight thinking about Leonard McCoy next door. It’s nice to not constantly be worried his phone is going to go off and he’s going to be called to arms. “It just seems – odd. You don’t really give time off. Sir. No offense.”

He can hear the smile in Spock’s voice, odd as it is, when he says, “You’re special, Agent Kirk.”

He wants to say _Call me Jim_ but thinks that even after four years, the casualty might not be reciprocated. He waits, instead.

“You don’t want another job, do you?”

Jim licks his lips. “I really wouldn’t mind,” he admits, glancing out the window as sirens flare in the far distance. Sirens always make him nervous. He looks over at his laptop sitting on the recliner in the corner, next to a tall lamp. “I feel like I’m…in a rut,” he says, and it sort of works. “I need to get out in the field.”

“Alright, well. I’ll see what I can do for you, all right? Nothing too intense?”

Jim lets himself chuckle. “Yeah, sure. Seriously, though, whatever.” He feels relief seep into his muscles.

“I’ll get back to you. Keep your phone on you.”

“Call or text?” Kirk asks, but the line is dead. He lets out a sigh and tosses the phone onto the coffee table, folding his arms over his chest and closing his eyes. Spock is sharp, quick, and knows how to work Jim’s impatience against him. He sits and clicks his tongue for a minute and then lets out another deeper breath, cooling down. There’s no reason to be angry – if Spock gives him any kind of job, it’ll be a relief, and Jim is more than looking forward to having a reason to get out of the house for something other than coffee.

Grabbing his phone and his wallet, Jim makes the decision to get coffee anyway.

-

Jim Kirk appears at his door at a quarter to five.

“Sorry, I was a little wound up,” he says with a forced laugh and McCoy steps back, letting the enemy into his territory. It feels wrong, and he has to force himself to keep his muscles from getting too taut. He tries not to think about the other day, after Sulu had teased him, bumping into Kirk on the stairway. Instead he breathes through his nose and lets the air out of his mouth, watching as Kirk looks around the apartment, quick sweeps of his eyes. He turns near the doorway leading into the kitchen and flashes McCoy a smile. “I had coffee earlier. Usually espresso doesn’t affect me like this, but admittedly, it seems I’m a little…susceptible to nerves.”

“Oh?” McCoy manages to ask, trailing behind him. Jim is wearing jeans and a faded t-shirt under a brown jacket. He manages to look good without trying, something McCoy is no good at doing and that he admires.

“I know I’m here early. When are you getting pizza?” he says, leaning against the doorway frame. 

“It’s a little early to eat,” McCoy says. He feels like he should have worked this out a little bit, and shifts his weight between his feet. He clears his throat. “The boxes are in the living room…”

Jim lets out a laugh. “Ah yes, you’re going to work me to death first.” McCoy rolls his eyes without really thinking about it. “Mmm, don’t make that face. I agreed to help you, didn’t I? That must mean I’m interested.”

“Yeah, in something,” McCoy says, eyeing Kirk. His posture is surprisingly relaxed, unlike the other times McCoy had met him. Usually, Kirk’s shoulders are tense and tight, a little slouched forward. McCoy thinks it’s some kind of automatic defensive system and he doesn’t really blame Kirk for being that way, considering the reality of the situation. “Like pizza,” he tacks on to the previous statement, seeing the way Kirk gives him a hungry look, one eyebrow tilted and lips turned upward at the corners. “Like pizza.”

“Yeah, sure, like pizza,” Kirk says, and there’s an undercurrent of coldness in the way he says it, but it still manages to be teasing. McCoy decides to roll with it, determining that the relaxed nature of Kirk’s posture says all he really needs to know – that Kirk isn’t afraid of him anymore. McCoy knows he’s still mostly a stranger, but he’s a stranger that Kirk isn’t worried will turn on him.

McCoy feels a mixture of pride and guilt and swallows it down, focusing on the pride most of all, following Kirk again into his living room.

Most of the boxes are just miscellaneous things he doesn’t really need to unpack. It had been all part of a scam to get Kirk into his apartment, and McCoy has nothing to hide. And if he does, he’s already thrust it deep in the closet in his bedroom (like his gun) and he doesn’t think that they’ll be venturing into the bedroom anytime soon.

Jim opens one of the boxes, revealing piles and piles of books. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he murmurs and McCoy chuckles. “You really are staying here.”

“Meaning?” McCoy asks, feigning confusion. Kirk’s lips are pressed in a tight line as he pulls out a few of the novels. Most of the books _are_ McCoy’s. There’s even a couple of aged medical textbooks at the bottom of that box, if McCoy’s memory is right. Mostly it’s novels – there’s Wally Lamb and Steven King and a mixture of less well-known authors, men and women alike. There are cop dramas; there are even a few erotic/romance novellas that McCoy doesn’t really like revealing he owns.

“Meaning nothing,” Jim says, his voice quiet and barely a breath. “Sorry. I’m just thinking out loud.”

“You know,” McCoy starts, “just throwing my books on the ground isn’t exactly helpful.”

“Sorry,” Kirk says again, but he clearly doesn’t mean it, even though he stops. “I’m just…”

“Curious. Makes sense.” Kirk looks up, tilting his chin up and frowning at McCoy standing over him. “You wanna know your new neighbor.” He sits down next to Jim in the middle of the floor and pulls one of the other boxes closer to him, opening it from the top. “I mean, if you want, waste your time looking at all the shit I’ve had. I’ve had some of those books since college,” he says, pointing out one of the text books that’s now lying flat on the floor. “But yeah, I’m here to stay,” he says with a smile. “Moved into the area and it doesn’t look like I’ll have luck elsewhere.” He shrugs his shoulder, remembering his cover story. “There’s some good places around town I’m considering…working in. Applying to.” The lies come easy because he wishes, so badly, they were true. Maybe he has it easy, at least money wise, but nothing can speak for the fulfillment of saving people. He misses it, even if all he ever did was some med school.

Kirk notices him getting tense and quiet. “You really love being a doctor, huh?”

“I guess,” he says, shrugging. “Look,” he says, pointing to the movie. “ _Casablanca_.”

“ _Casablanca_ , really?” Jim laughs. “Is that supposed to impress me? Or distract me?”

“I don’t know,” McCoy says, and means it. “Distract you, probably. I don’t think anyone’s all that impressed by black and white films these days.”

“Are you mocking my generation?” Jim says. His voice is quiet.

“Your generation isn’t all that different from mine.”

Jim grins. “Are you trying to say we’re in the same generation? Mmmm, not so sure about that. You’re a little old to be a Millennial.”

“Am I?” McCoy murmurs.

“Yeah, I think you are. You grew up in the 90’s, for real, I bet.”

“80’s and 90’s,” McCoy corrects. “Damn, maybe I am old.”

“When were you born?” Jim asks, voice prodding. “You know my age, I don’t know yours.”

McCoy shoots him a look. “79,” he says, shifts slightly.

“Damn. You’re thirty-five? You are old.”

“Oh, shut up,” McCoy says, lets himself laugh again. “But yes. Yes, I’m thirty-five.” He cringes as he says it. “My birthday was on the twenty-second of January.”

“Whatever,” Jim says finally, “it’s not really that weird.”

“No, it isn’t.”

They’re both quiet for a few minutes, sorting through books and movies and TV shows that McCoy doesn’t remember having. Jim snorts every now and then as he stacks books and then begins to put them onto the empty shelf next to the TV that McCoy hadn’t really thought about even using. He hadn’t thought much through, he realizes, watching as Kirk organizes with a swiftness that seems unfair. McCoy shuffles to stick his DVDs in the cabinet under the TV. It’s fitting, almost comfortable, to just be sitting together and sorting through boxes.

Once they finish with three and a half boxes, Jim says “It’s time for dinner,” and stands up. His voice is a little overly commanding for someone who isn’t paying for the food but McCoy doesn’t say anything about it, pushing himself to his feet and fishing his cell phone out of his pocket.

Kirk heads into the kitchen and McCoy doesn’t follow him, dialing the number that’s programmed into his phone for Pizza Hut. He orders a box with a pan pizza – pepperoni – breadsticks, and cinnamon sticks. He also asks for garlic sauce and a liter of Pepsi.

“Delivery,” he confirms, then, “Thank you. Thanks.” He hangs up and follows Kirk into the kitchen. 

Kirk has one of the drawers open and is reaching inside for something, McCoy’s not sure. He jumps when McCoy enters the kitchen. 

“Oops,” he says and McCoy just looks at him. “You did catch me red handed.”

“What are you doing?” He tries to ignore the panic in his voice. There’s nothing incarcerating in the kitchen and he knows it. If Jim was reaching for anything, it was a fork stuck in the back of a drawer that had somehow got there in the few weeks that he had been there.

Kirk grins, fake innocence plastered all over his face. “Just curious. Gonna punish me for stealing?”

McCoy glares at him and it’s very real. “Don’t fuck around with my stuff, kid,” he snaps. “The delivery guy will be here in twenty minutes, so settle down until then.”

“Oh, don’t be a spoil sport,” Jim whines. “And call me by my name, would you? Leonard?”

“Do you do that just to piss me off?”

“Maybe,” Kirk says, smiling. “I have to keep myself entertained somehow.”

McCoy opens the refrigerator and takes out a can of beer, popping it open and leaning against the counter. Kirk is watching him now, and the silence between them melts the tension.

“Why are you here?” Jim asks in a soft voice.

“Excuse me?”

“I mean, why are you here?” Jim says, speaking up. “I mean, why are you _really_ here?”

McCoy’s heart skips a beat, his head scattering to find something to say. He feels like he’s been caught and that – could be dangerous.

But Jim isn’t rounding on him. There’s nothing threatening about his posture, just a deep, possibly annoyed, curiosity.

“Why am I…in my kitchen?”

Jim rolls his eyes. “Why are you in New York? Why are you jobless in an apartment in New York City and asking your young neighbor to come over for pizza?”

McCoy hesitates.

“And don’t lie to me.”

McCoy shoots him a look. “You know,” he starts. “I lost everything that really – mattered. Because of my job.” He takes a gulp of his beer. “No, that’s not true. I lost everything that really mattered because I was an asshole.” He shakes his head. “I let down my wife and I let down myself, too. I made some bad decisions. And even though this job fell through, or it feels like it did, like it’s betraying me – I realize, you know. This is a new start. I have a nice apartment, I can’t complain about my neighbor. But I lost everything. All I’ve got left is my bones.”

“That’s what I’ll call you, then.”

“What?” McCoy looks up and blinks, frowns.

“Bones. You’re Bones now.”

“I…okay.” He isn’t quite sure he understands why but he accepts it. 

Neither of them moves for the rest of the ten or so minutes waiting for the pizza, and when the guy comes with the delivery, McCoy opens the door and pays for it, hassle free. They both sit down at the kitchen table and Jim eats at least half of the pizza, two of the breadsticks and even a cinnamon stick. He also drinks most of the Pepsi, but McCoy can’t complain about that. At least someone’s eating the food he bought beside himself.

“It’s good,” Kirk says through a mouthful of pizza. “This is really good.”

“Really?” McCoy asks, finishing his beer. The last sip is bitterer than the rest. He gets up to throw it into the recycling box he keeps next to the fridge that Jim had just teased him about. “It’s just Pizza Hut,” he says as he sits down again, picking up a third slice of pizza against his better judgment.

“I’ve never had Pizza Hut,” Jim says. “My mom never liked to get take-out.” They both go quiet. “She had her reasons.”

“Just your mom?” McCoy asks.

“Just my mom,” Kirk affirms, but he doesn’t say anything else. Then, “Yeah, okay. Dead dad.” His voice is tightly wound, and his posture has changed again tonight, like his body is pulling in on itself. “Never knew him, actually,” he says under his breath. “Died the day I was born.”

“Oh,” McCoy says. He wants to ask if it was accident, murder, or something else entirely though he’s not sure what. He bites his tongue.

“Murder,” Jim says.

“Oh.”

“People thought it was an accident but it wasn’t.” He looks up and meets McCoy’s eyes. His eyes are blue and ice cold – chilling. “They can fuck themselves, you know. The people who…killed my dad.”

“Do you know who killed your dad?” McCoy keeps his voice careful, nonchalant without appearing unaffected. He doesn’t want Kirk to think he’s interrogating him, or ignoring him. It’s a line he has to be careful about not crossing.

“Yeah,” says Jim with a snort. He takes a drink of his Pepsi again. “Have to kill you if I told you that, though.”

McCoy goes still.

“Bones.”

It takes him a moment to realize he’s being addressed. “Wh-what?”

“It’s a joke,” Jim says softly, “I’m not going to kill you. But I’m also not going to tell you who killed my dad. That much should be obvious.”

“Okay,” McCoy says, wishing he had grabbed another beer. 

“We should probably keep unloading boxes, right?”

“Yeah.”

-

Jim sprawls himself on the floor, laying flat on his stomach as he tips the box over so the contents spill on the floor in front of him. Bones, as he’s named him, is sat on the couch instead, leaning over a box. McCoy is quieter than before, shifting through more books that either of them can count as Jim focuses on movies.

“Why do you have so many films? A lot of old ones, I noticed,” Jim asks.

“I don’t know,” McCoy says from the couch. Jim looks up at him and catches him shrugging. “Maybe because I’m lonely.”

“You don’t have to be lonely,” Jim points out. “There are people, everywhere.”

“You make it sound so easy.” Jim’s work phone vibrates in his pocket and he twitches, standing up. 

“Um, I’ll be right back,” he says, pulling his phone out. He expects it to be Carol but it’s Spock. He hurries into the kitchen and unlocks the screen. “Hello?”

“I told you I was going to call,” Spock says. “What are you up to, Mr. Kirk?”

“Um, not much?” Jim says. “Sorry. You caught me by surprise. You hung up on me earlier.”

“I told you to expect a call,” Spock says. “Anyway, I have your mission set up. I sent it to your e-mail, but I’ll give you a few details now. There will be a party – a set up for local politicians in the area, mostly just rich, young kids – your type, I imagine. However, I think you can be very helpful…with finding out one certain boy’s father’s secret. I try not to associate with such low level politics but it seems only fair, and it’s a good way to get you back in the field without a huge threat level.”

“Uhm, alright, yeah. I’ll check my e-mail later tonight.”

“So, you’re good?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll be seeing you.” The phone clicks as Spock hangs up and Jim pockets his phone again with a sigh. There’s always something slightly ominous about the way Spock says things like that as if they’re promises he intends to truly keep. Kirk isn’t really looking forward to a visit from his boss, especially not anytime soon.

He heads back out and McCoy is looking at him, eyes soft. “Everything alright?”

Jim shrugs and tries to hide his nerves. “Yeah, it’s fine. Can we…watch a movie or something?”

McCoy blinks and frowns before nodding. “Sure. I have plenty of them.” It’s already almost seven o’clock, and Jim thinks he should be leaving, not trying to stay a couple hours more. He should want to do his job, check his e-mail, do the research that he finds so deeply comforting at two in the morning when the insomnia is catching up and weighing him down like a brick. But there’s something easy about the way that McCoy stands, how he crouches in front of his DVD player and asks Jim what he wants to watch, something that makes it hard for Jim to concentrate or imagine a world where he wants to go home and talk to Carol or Spock or any of his colleagues. Right now, he wants to focus on something so entirely different, something that can be natural and easy, and maybe being with McCoy, even if only for the latter end of the day, can be that.

They end up settling on a Denzel Washington action flick, which Jim is pleasantly surprised McCoy picks out. They sit next to each other on the couch and McCoy seems to be drifting by the first third of the film – not to sleep, just far away, in his head. Jim is too, he knows, having difficulty paying attention as his mind swirls with reminders that real life is right around the corner, always waiting to attack when he least expects or wants it. Sure, he had accepted the job, kind of wanted it, but a part of him also wants to be free. He wants to focus because he doesn’t want to be alone, and he doesn’t want to think about how his job is just going to get in the way of living a normal life again.

After something like an hour of silence beside the muted sounds of gunshots from the TV, Jim touches Bones’ sleeve and tugs at it. Where Jim is wearing a jacket, McCoy’s got on a long sleeved t-shirt that fits him in all the right ways. McCoy turns to look at him and opens his mouth in the dark as if to ask a question, or answer an unspoken one, but Jim stops him, leaning in and pressing their mouths together.

The kiss is cold at first, like Bones doesn’t really know what to do before their lips lock together in a proper kiss. The warmth that floods through Jim’s body makes up for every lonely month since he moved here, since he’s _been alone_ , and that’s been years.

Then McCoy drags himself back, breathing heavily. “You…” he whispers, and he looks like he wants to say something else, eyes pained until he dips in and captures Jim in another kiss that makes Jim feel like he’s being devoured. McCoy kisses exactly like Jim thought he would kiss, powerful and rough and honestly _deep_ , deep in a way that Jim’s pretty sure is indescribable.

They kiss for a moment, their mouths bruising together before Bones pushes him onto the couch, flat on his back. Jim gasps against McCoy’s mouth at the strength in his touches – how he hardly pauses before scraping his teeth along Jim’s jaw after the kiss, nipping along his throat in sharp touches. Every seconds leaves another burning sensation along his skin, and it’s better than anything Jim had imagined in the dead of night when he couldn’t sleep.

Their bodies fit together on the couch and Jim enjoys the frantic childishness that comes with feverish making out, because that’s all it is for the moment as they adjust to each other. It’s a game of exploration, Jim realizes, tilting his head back and exposing his throat against as McCoy laces his fingers into Jim’s hair, holding him still. McCoy’s mouth traces down to his collarbones, teasing his skin along the way, and as Jim forgets what control feels like, he fades further and further into oblivion. They work together, sitting up slightly, to pull off Jim’s jacket, which falls immediately to the floor, followed by his shirt without thought or question.

Even in the dim glow of the movie still playing in the background, Jim can make out the spark in McCoy’s eyes, and it feels like being swallowed whole. Jim has never quite wanted to be immersed in someone, not in the way that McCoy makes him feel. He wants to close his eyes and end up in utter darkness, no need for questions, no need for answers, no need for words at all.

“You,” McCoy says again, echoing his earlier self but with something less like shock and more like assurance. He captures Jim’s mouth again before leaning back and tugging off his own shirt. “You look so good.”

A thrill shoots through Jim and ends in his cock. His heart is thudding in his ears, and he tries to remind himself about what Carol had said about this being a bad idea. He still knows next to nothing about Doctor Leonard McCoy and what’s actually beyond those eyes or those hands. His brain blanks all the fear out – well, most of the fear – when Bones dips down again and runs his tongue over Jim’s chest, head traveling downward.

She hadn’t _exactly_ forewarned him about this. Sex is very different from romance, and Jim knows that better than anyone. A good loophole will do.

In a way it’s heartbreaking but Jim just lets out a guttural moan, rocking his hips up. There’s no friction to be found, just McCoy’s strong hands pushing him back onto the couch. Jim’s suddenly relieved that the couch is as long and wide as it is, comfortable for two entangled bodies, though he’s sure if they stay here he’s going to get cramps.

He’s about to say so when McCoy rests his palm over Jim’s cock through his jeans, rubbing in slow circles.

Instead, he falls back into the couch and tries to catch his breath. He’s never felt quite so vulnerable, underneath someone else instead of on top, which is where he’s often found himself, but he’s also never been bedded by someone quite like McCoy.

He whispers – “Bones,” – and isn’t entirely sure why, but it seems right, even though his voice cracks. McCoy kisses him again, and this time it’s more aggressive and toothy, almost angry. Jim gasps and squirms when McCoy bites his bottom lip, hard enough to almost draw blood. His head is swimming, and he knows it’s not because he’s drunk or high, at least not literally.

He grins as McCoy sits back and says, almost out of nowhere, “Are you clean?”

“What – I – ” He lets out a nervous laugh as he realizes what McCoy is referring to. “Yes, yeah, I’m fine. No STDs, I promise.”

He can feel McCoy looking at him, but he isn’t lying. He’s been tested recently, too. Twice-yearly checkups are a requirement for his ‘job’, but he doesn’t say that. He just hopes that McCoy believes him.

“Okay,” Bones says with a nod, “I’m going to suck you off.” McCoy’s voice is heavy and low and Jim lets out a small moan that escapes from the back of his throat.

It’s too goddamn much.

“Just hold still,” Bones says, and he moves back on the couch on his knees, unbuttoning and unzipping Jim’s jeans and sliding them over his hips in a slow motion that makes Jim think he’s going to lose everything. He feels numb for a second, completely lost to the world because panic is rising in his chest and then he can feel it in his throat but then there’s McCoy’s mouth, a mouth that he’s dreamed about, and it’s just wet warmth against his boxers, his cock so hard under the touch. And McCoy knows it, and that’s why McCoy is doing everything in his power to make this as awful as it possibly could be for Jim.

“Please,” Jim whispers, and Bones gives a satisfied snicker.

“Say it again,” he says, and there’s wonder in his voice. 

Jim curses before he says, “ _Please_ suck my cock,” maintaining an air of sarcasm. He’s at least able to do that, and he’s proud for a second, despite the shaking in his voice and breath.

“Good job,” Bones says, another chuckle causing a reverberation through Jim’s crotch. Seconds later, McCoy pulls down his boxers and wraps his fingers around Jim’s cock, sucking the head into his mouth.

“Shit,” Jim grits out. He can’t remember the last time he had a mouth on him, let alone a guy as hot as McCoy, but it’s so good and his head buzzes with it. He tries to make a mental note to ask Bones for tips because he really knows how to suck a cock but the thought doesn’t make it into long term memory, barely into short term as McCoy’s mouth slides further down the shaft of his cock, lips rough at first but then perfectly wet and smooth.

His thighs shake and one of McCoy’s hands finds his hip, pressing him down into the couch again. McCoy swallows Jim’s cock after a few moments of expert sucking, and it becomes too much all at once. Jim’s insides burn with the need for release and he manages to get a hand in McCoy’s hair pulling him up to the head of his cock again as he edges toward orgasm.

McCoy finishes him off by swirling his tongue around the tip. Jim lets out a moan and gasps as his breathing picks up again as his orgasm ripples through him. He feels Bones swallowing again and he breathes out _fuck fuck fuck_ as the waves roll over him.

When Jim opens his eyes again, he’s alone on the couch, McCoy walking down the hall. He almost calls after him but when he opens his mouth and his tongue is dry and heavy, he decides to instead tuck his cock back into his boxers and pull his jeans up to his hips, though he leaves them undone. He waits, leaning back against the pillow and catching his breath, counting backwards from one hundred. He’s gone through the counting at least twice before he hears Bones back at his side, standing over him.

“That was amazing,” Jim says, grinning up and McCoy. “Bones. I really like that name,” he says, reaching out to grab the bottom of McCoy’s shirt and tug him down. McCoy goes on his knees in front of the couch but doesn’t say anything. When they kiss, he tastes like mint and Jim sighs into his mouth. “Are you going to kick me out now?” he breathes against McCoy’s lips, fingers still holding onto McCoy’s shirt.

“No,” he says, voice quiet and soft, thrumming with something that feels close to need, but also fear, Jim can’t tell. “You’re gonna come to bed with me, okay? And you’re gonna sleep in bed with me. And we’re going to wake up tomorrow and figure out what the hell just happened.”

“It’s still early,” Jim points out, though admittedly he’s not sure how long they watched the movie before he finally gave into his urges. Maybe an hour, could have been two for all Jim can remember now. And he doesn’t know how long McCoy spent working him up, sucking him off, or how long Bones had been in the bathroom, or doing whatever. The night feels like a blur of movement and anxieties that all came into one kiss, which just lead to other things.

“It’s almost ten o’clock,” McCoy murmurs, stroking a hand through Jim’s hair. “And I’m sure you’re tired,” he says, “you were doing all my work for me for hours.”

Jim likes the state he’s in, something like blurred almost-exhaustion that keeps his head from processing the things that seem scary and overwhelming. He reaches his other hand out and Bones responds, pulling him up off the couch. Jim winds his arm around McCoy’s shoulder and leans in. The connection, which had been there before, just subtler, feels electric now.

Bones leads him down the hall and Jim tries not to drag his feet as Bones opens the door to the bedroom. Jim doesn’t notice much about the room except that it’s bigger than his own and that the bed is only a few feet away. He stumbles to it on his own and falls over with a sigh.

“I told you you’d be tired,” McCoy says, and his voice seems distant.

“Aren’t you coming to bed with me?” Jim says from the bed, twisting and grabbing the blanket and tugging it over himself. He’s not wearing a shirt, he remembers, and the blanket brings him warmth and steady comfort. “Isn’t that what you just said?”

“Yeah,” McCoy says, but his voice is still so quiet and so distant. Jim’s eyes are shut and he can’t think of a good enough reason to open them.

The last thing he remembers that night is Bones saying, “Good night,” from the doorway.

-

McCoy settles down at his computer after Jim falls asleep. He tries to ignore the twitching in his entire body, constantly moving in his seat, stretching his arms over his head, stretching his legs under the table. He’s working on an e-mail to send to Uhura, one saying that infiltration has been successful, that he’d like some more information on what _exactly_ he’s looking for because the situation calls for more specifics. Somehow, the words just don’t want to come out. He flicks the light on and off and on again, pushes himself around in the chair he’s in (which has wheels) and sighs.

The cursor blinks on the screen in front of him. He swallows thickly and runs a hand through his hair, grabs a pen and starts to tap it against the edge of the desk. Hopefully, Kirk will sleep through the night.

He shoots a glance over at the bedroom door, which is just slightly open. He had turned off the light before heading out and even though Kirk was definitely asleep, he still felt nervous. There always seemed to be a chance of getting caught in a lie that was spun awkwardly, of having Kirk show up and glance over his shoulder and find out what’s been going on. It would be that easy and it would fuck everything up.

Somehow, the thought of betraying Kirk’s trust is now measurable to the option of losing his life. Which is just so goddamn ridiculous.

McCoy sighs and closes his eyes, pausing for a moment before he starts to tap out the e-mail, more insistent on finishing this time.

_In good position for infiltration, as previously stated – need correspondence to know what to do next. What should I be looking for? I can enter his apartment, probably at any time. No word on suspicious blue pills yet, I’ll look into it ASAP. Haven’t found out anything about “Spock”; not sure what I should be looking for. Need more details and specifics before I can really get you anything helpful. – McCoy_

He sends the e-mail as is, careful to leave out details that could make Uhura suspicious of what exactly he’s doing. Licking his lips, he browses for a minute before closing the Internet browser and shutting the lid of his laptop. It’s past eleven now, and he thinks about Jim Kirk laying in his bed – though for all he knows, Jim Kirk could also be rattling around (albeit quietly) in his closet and discovering McCoy’s own secrets.

_Bones_ he thinks, frowning at the nickname. It seems almost hollow, hard to take seriously. Like a mockery of him tuned with affection.

McCoy isn’t sure how to handle the guilt. He remembers that it hasn’t been that long, knowing Jim Kirk, intimately or otherwise. It doesn’t have to _be_ anything and he knows that because he also knows that it can’t ever be anything. Casual sex is casual sex, and he’s willing to go back and forth and work like that if it gets the goddamn job done. And the sooner, the better.

He thinks about Uhura’s casual throwaway. Elimination, death, befriend him and kill him. That all sounds so easy in theory but every time that McCoy thinks about it, his entire body feels like it’s knotting up, tension overriding his ability to be sincere, to be kind, to be a healer and to be in love.

“In love” is just a phrase, though a heavy one that carries quite a bit of weight, even just with McCoy. He had thought he was “in love” with Jocelyn, and maybe he was, and maybe she was in love with him as well, but it doesn’t quite work that simply, either. Leaning back in his chair, McCoy closes his eyes and tries to think about people he could be in love with, could have been – in the past or in a past life.

Jim Kirk just isn’t one of those people. There’s no way that their timelines would ever match up, and McCoy knows this damn well. It comes with simple logic.

He swallows his guilt, his pride, and his insufferable need to put others before himself, and he clicks off the lamp on the table, heading into the bathroom. He grabs a pair of sweatpants out of the linen closet and changes into them before brushing his teeth and washing his face. When he climbs into bed with Jim Kirk, they settle side by side, and Kirk’s breath comes in soft puffs against McCoy’s throat. 

_Trust_ , McCoy thinks, letting his eyes fall shut and relaxing into the mattress, _is what’s really dangerous_. Next to him lies someone he might have to kill.

He’s glad he didn’t leave his gun under his pillow tonight.

-

Jim wakes up alone. It’s disorienting at first, an unfamiliar room and an unfamiliar bed and his pants still on from the night before. He sets up and turns and feels his neck crack. He curses and pulls the comforter off as last night goes back to his head.

Then, he smiles. It feels like a dream in some ways, all kinds of mesmerizing touch and scenes that belong in movies about queer boys falling in love for the first time. Neither of them are boys anymore but he feels like a teenager as he yawns, stretching his arms over his head before getting up and venturing into the hallway.

Bones is on the couch with a cup of coffee in hand, staring at the wall. Jim watches him for a moment before heading out and picking his shirt off the recliner where it’s folded.

“You folded my clothes?” he says, forcing his best casual disinterest. McCoy glances up at him with a weak half smile and Jim frowns. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh,” McCoy says, sipping his coffee. “Nothing.”

Jim pulls on the shirt and then kneels next to McCoy, shifting in close. Bones looks at him and blinks before smiling.

“Any cream in your coffee, sir?” Jim says, keeping his voice light. He hovers just outside of McCoy’s personal space, but McCoy just shakes his head and gives a low chuckle. “Fine, no early morning flirting.”

“You slept in late,” Bones points out. “It’s almost nine.”

“That is – ” Jim stutters, “How on earth is that _late_?”

“You fell asleep at what, eleven? That’s ten hours.”

“Jesus Christ,” Jim laughs, “Can I get some of that coffee? Or will it put me in a dull mood like you?”

Bones glances up at him again, eyes curious and remarkably hazel, words Jim never thought he’d use to describe someone. “You’re very casual,” he says after a moment. “You don’t seem nervous.”

“Why would I be nervous?” Jim asks as he slips into the kitchen. He finds the coffee, finds the mugs, and pours himself a cup. He checks in the refrigerator for milk, and though Bones only has 2%, he’ll take what he can get. He pours a bit into the mug until the darkness of the coffee becomes less black and more like rich milk chocolate. He sips, and it’s almost perfect. “Are you gonna kill me?”

He hears McCoy gives a soft snort in the other room. “Maybe,” he calls, voice trailing. “I guess I just thought you’d be more freaked out.” Jim enters the room again and settles into the recliner, diagonal to McCoy. “You seemed really…fucked up, sort of. Last night.” Bones clears his throat and Jim grins.

“I’m not complaining,” he says and Bones shakes his head. “Sorry, I know you’re trying to be serious. I just can’t figure out why.” He sips his coffee at the same time as McCoy does his. “There doesn’t have to be anything, you know,” he says, under his breath. McCoy looks up and frowns. “If you want, just a one night thing between two neighbors.” He sighs; the realization that that decision is most likely the only good one is disappointing, but he sort of hopes that Bones takes it for him so he won’t have to say it himself and take the high ground. “Doesn’t mean we can’t still be friends.”

“I…” McCoy says, the look of pain on his face too much. Jim looks away. “I don’t even know your last name.”

“What?” Jim says, and somehow that seems unreal. “It’s Kirk.”

“You never told me. You just called yourself Jim, the first time we met.”

“Yeah,” Jim says, and now he’s afraid at how quickly he jumped to answer McCoy’s demand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize,” he lies, and McCoy is still looking at him like he’s a puzzle to be solved. Jim pulls his legs up to hide his chest, feeling vulnerable in a way that doesn’t feel familiar. “It’s your choice. What to do. I’m happy with whatever,” Jim adds.

“Is that a lie?”

“Sort of.”

Bones lips twitch with a half-smile and he sets down his empty mug of coffee. “I’ve been up since seven,” he admits. “I went to…bed…a littler later than you as well. Wasn’t tired.”

“Don’t blame you,” Jim says, tries to be teasing but it’s weak. Bones still smiles, shaking his head.

“I didn’t jack off in the shower if that’s what you’re asking.” Jim hides his face. “I – sent out a my résumé. To a couple of local…employers, you know. And then I joined you.”

“You didn’t sleep on the couch?”

“No, I didn’t sleep on the couch.”

There’s silence between them for a long moment and Jim takes the time to take a few bigger gulps of his quickly cooling coffee. It still sort of stings his throat but it invigorates him as well.

“Maybe that’s why I slept so well last night.”

“Yeah, maybe,” McCoy says with a short laugh. “Could be a lot of things. Are you trying to be romantic? It’s not working.”

“Not exactly,” Jim says, setting down his mug next to McCoy’s. “Just honest. It’s not something I often indulge in. Not many people see an honest side of me.”

Bones narrows his eyes. “I don’t think I’m seeing an honest side of you,” he accuses and Jim sighs. “I don’t think I have ever seen an honest side of you, and I probably won’t. But that’s not…that’s not really the problem here, is it? I’ve not been honest with you either.”

Jim looks up again and waits, not sure what to expect.

“That discussion’s for another time,” McCoy says and stands, offering his hand and taking Jim’s mug and stepping into the kitchen. Jim groans to himself and waits for Bones to get back.

“Can you at least give me a hint? On what you’re lying to me about?” Jim asks from his seat as McCoy steps back into the room. But he just shakes his head and leans down to kiss him – which shuts Jim up.

It’s quick and chaste though, not nearly enough to satisfy Jim’s every nerve ending which calls for being yanked into the bedroom again.

“Okay,” he says instead of expressing the horniness, “so it’s just this then. Whatever happens, happens.”

McCoy shakes his head. “Not exactly, but it’s a start.”

Jim wonders why things can’t be easy, and then remembers the call from Spock the other day. “You know, I should be…heading home.” Bones frowns at him. “Just, um. I have a couple of friends I have to call back, and…work related things.” Bones raises an eyebrow. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. I have a job. I got a call last night, when I went into the kitchen.” McCoy’s expression turns more curious and his attention is rapt. “What?” Jim asks, shifting uncomfortably before he stands up. “I just have some…personal business. To attend to.”

Then McCoy stands, and he pulls him in and kisses him. It’s a short kiss, not meant to be heavy or drain Jim of everything he has, but he settles with it, happy for the almost prolonged contact.

“Do your job,” McCoy whispers as they part. “And be safe.”

The warning seems too real, but Jim brushes it off with a smirk as he heads out the door and goes back to his own apartment.

-

Jim leaves and McCoy lies on the couch for a while. It feels existential – he doesn’t want to get up and check his e-mail, but his phone hasn’t rang either. He doesn’t want to know anything anymore, doesn’t want to consider all the possible outcomes of his numerous mistakes.

Jim Kirk had admitted his last name openly and without question. McCoy squeezes his eyes shut. Jim Kirk had also nicknamed him Bones.

He sits down at his computer after a half hour of almost falling asleep and then jerking awake to a rude memory or anxiety. He has a new e-mail from Uhura, and he opens it, hesitant.

_You keep mentioning blue pills but I don’t have any evidence! Obtain them!_ he smiles at the personal sense embedded in the message, Uhura’s impatience clear but not menacing. _If you can, find his phone. Chances are he has two of them – one of them will be his work phone, much like yours. If you know what to do, you can hack it and obtain valuable information. Phone numbers, dates of meetings, etc. He’s young – he’ll keep everything in his phone._ McCoy thinks that Uhura is young too, not much older than Jim Kirk by any means. She follows by saying _Spock is the #1 priority. NUMBER ONE!!!!!!_ He snickers and shakes his head. _If we can track him down then your job is done and we’ll be back in business, better than ever before. This could change your life, as well as mine. Eliminating Spock means eliminating all of them, and it means a better and safer world._ He isn’t sure he believes that last part entirely because he thinks eliminating Spock just means giving Uhura more room to reign, but Uhura’s alright, so he can’t complain about that. She drops off the e-mail with _Contact me when you get more info._

McCoy closes the tab and sighs. It’s better than he expected, at least, and it does give him some direction. Stealing Kirk’s phone might be a little difficult but all in all, it’s a manageable task. If he can get Kirk asleep, even in his own apartment, then he can search him and take the phone. Then again, keeping the phone and hacking it are entirely different stories. He groans and heads into the kitchen to make more coffee. He has to pay more attention and determine the best course of action before he goes and tries to steal a cell phone.

So far he can’t tell if what he did last night was a good thing or not. He’s leaning towards good, but that might just be endorphins and adrenaline that are still vaguely pulsing in the back of his mind, reminding him how good it is to have sex. And not just intercourse, but sex, where both parties are a little bit sweaty and a little bit desperate and absolutely into it. McCoy sips his coffee again and shivers as he remembers Jim’s voice, cracked and needy, and everything that had followed.

It felt like it should be more than enough. He paces. His head is thrumming and it’s all rather deplorable.

-

Jim does feel some work guilt as he checks his e-mail. Spock has sent him the details he had promised; a ticket to the event will be mailed to him within the next couple of days – a perfectly legitimate one, at that. There will be another agent there who is in-the-know with one of the young politician’s sons and Jim is supposed to be his friend, to fake it until he makes it. He opens the file, which is the picture of the guy and takes a mental note not to forget the face. Formal dress code. Spock even asks if he has any concerns at the tail-end of the e-mail which makes Jim laugh to himself a little.

The “mission”, as it’s being called, isn’t for another two weeks. Jim tries not to think about how that’s a positive thing, focusing more on the fact that it’ll leave him bored and out of his head for two weeks.

Unless he finds someone else to spend that time with. Which is exactly the ‘positive thing’ he had been avoiding thinking about. He rests his head in his hands and groans before typing out a response.

_Sounds good, will check e-mail. If you need to let me know anything else, text or call, more likely to respond quickly. Sorry I didn’t get back to you last night. Thanks._ He sends the e-mail, feeling awkward, and then returns to his cell phones. He calls Carol from his personal number and she picks up.

“Hi,” she says, breathless. “You’re not going to believe what I found out.”

“Oh, really? Hey Carol, nice to hear from you. I’d been worried that you’d been sacked or something,” he admits, feeling guilty that he hadn’t thought to call her back again sooner.

“No, no, not yet,” she says, her voice rushed. “Not that it isn’t possible.” Some of the notes crack and she giggles, a little hysterical and uncharacteristic.

“Where are you?” Jim asks, frowning. “What’s going on?”

“I’m…out. For now. But Spock expects me back by tomorrow. I’ve been doing a lot of research, more in depth stuff and Jim – you’re not safe.”

“Oh? How is that?”

“I’m not sure, I just…” Carol trails off and then lets out a small noise. “I’m frustrated,” she admits. “And I’m worried that you’re going to get in trouble.”

“With who? With Spock?” he asks, incredulous. “Come on, things have been going really well. I mean, I just got assigned another mission, not a huge deal, no assassinations but – ”

She cuts him off with a curse. “That’s not what I mean! Spock isn’t the danger, at least not for you. But I found out about…” She lowers her voice and Jim listens and hears others in the background. “Sorry,” she says, “I’m in public. It’s easier to feel normal in public.”

“What’s going on, Carol?”

“I found out about a woman.”

“Okay…What about this woman?”

“I think…she wants you dead.”

“Excuse me?” Kirk can’t hide the alarm and he turns to stare at his own front door. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Silence except for muffled speakers in the background. “Goddammit Carol, don’t you dare hang up. If you hang up on me I swear to god, I will never speak to you ever again.”

“I didn’t hang up,” Carol says softly, her voice like frozen static. “Just give me a minute.”

Jim can feel himself getting livid, his body thrumming with sudden fear. “What the hell does that _mean_ , Carol? Where the hell are you?”

“Look, it’d be easier, it’d be better if you met me in person, alright? I don’t trust phone lines and it’s probably not Spock but someone could be monitoring the calls and I don’t want to take that risk.”

Jim hesitates. “Are you serious? Jesus Christ. Are you in New York?”

“I’m about an hour out,” she admits. “I’ll send you my location, alright? I’ll text you.”

“Yeah, because that’s so safe.”

“Do you want to know what I found out or not?”

“…Sorry. Okay, all right. I’ll see you soon, okay?”

“Thank you.”

She sends the coordinates – and of course they’d be goddamn coordinates, Jim thinks, rolling his eyes – barely thirty seconds after he’s hung up. Jim pockets his phone, heads into the bedroom to grab his wallet and keys, and heads out of the apartment. He pauses at the door before locking it behind him, hurrying down the steps. It’s days like these he’s glad he has a car. He only looks over his shoulder once, not sure what he expects to see at the top of the stairs before he leaves the building and heads towards the parking lot.

It takes Jim almost exactly an hour to drive out to and find where Carol is – he tries not to think about the tracker he knows is installed in his car to keep him safe in case he disappears off the radar, and eventually pushes it out of his head when he reaches the busy little bookstore-slash-coffee shop in the outskirts of New York City. He spots Carol as soon as he walks in, fumbling with the top of her cup of coffee and checking her phone, blonde hair loose and unkempt.

“Hey,” he says in a low voice, sliding into the seat across from her. He rests his hand over hers as the sense of her buzzing fear becomes stronger in her presence. “Carol, it’s me.”

Carol blinks at him and then shakes her head, drawing her hand back. “You’ll have to order something,” she says vacantly, “I promised I’d leave if you didn’t order anything,” she says, now with a sort of half smile. Jim nods, frowning, and gets up to stand in line. He doesn’t bother with his usual order today, instead asking for a small vanilla coffee. The barista charges him with a smile and hands him the cup a minute later.

He sits down again, more intent on finding out what’s on Carol’s mind. “Okay, so what couldn’t you tell me on the phone?”

Carol fidgets in her seat. “I said…I think you’re in danger.”

“Yeah,” Jim presses, “I got that part. But why?”

Carol looks out the window as if checking to see if they’re being followed. “I just…I just think that…well, I don’t think Mr. Spock is very – trustworthy, per se.”

“What?” Jim says, sitting back. “Carol, you’re not making any sense.”

She drops her shoulders with a heavy sigh. “There’s another agency, an illegal place, obviously – but it’s connected more strongly with the government than we are. I believe…I believe I found some dirt on Spock from before…he came into charge, if you will.” Her voice is hushed and fast but no one is even looking at them. Jim leans in closer to listen. “Her name is Uhura. I don’t have a first name, but she and Spock have some kind of – past. I’m not sure exactly, it could be platonic or romantic or sexual or some combination but they worked together for a while before we came to be. I mean, this was before my time, Jim, and you know I’ve been – I’ve been with Mr. Spock for almost eight years.”

Jim tries to imagine his life four years from now, closing his eyes. It seems impossible to be trapped, and yet he’s signed himself up for lifelong servitude. “Okay, so, let me get this straight, or at least, try. Spock shacked up with some woman, as hard as that is to believe, and she left him to start her _own_ agency? To be a handler? And what does that have to do with me?”

Carol puts her head in her hands. “I’m trying to piece it all together, just believe me,” she says, voice so hurried that Kirk has to lean in further to catch every word as she runs her hands continuously through her hair, eyes wide and obviously sleepless. “I’m sure you’re involved, though I’m not sure how. There’s just…there’s something suspicious about how Spock’s been ignoring you.” When she finally looks up, she’s biting her lip, and Jim pauses for a minute to catch up on everything she’s said.

“Ignoring me?” Jim says after a moment, baffled. “The hell do you mean by that?”

“I mean,” Carol says, voice and expression both pained, “that no one gets a goddamn break, Jim. Oh, sure, a day off every once in a blue moon if you’re good and trustworthy. But not when you’re twenty-four. You’re still fresh meat and he’s dangling you like a hook. I think – I think he may be trying to lure Uhura in, whoever she is. You’re the bait, Jim.” Her voice cracks and there’s sorrow on her face. “I’m so sorry.”

“You’re wrong,” Jim manages, but his own voice is raw and he doesn’t believe what he’s saying. “Spock wouldn’t – that wouldn’t happen.” He finds himself glancing around the shop with the same panicked expression that Carol had been wearing earlier. “He wouldn’t do that, Carol. And in any case – why – why me? Why would I be the bait?”

“Because you’re young and expendable,” Carol says softly. “He’s going to wonder what I’ve been up to.” She moans and grabs her empty cup, crinkling it under her perfect nails. “I don’t know if I can lie that well. But Jim.”

“What?”

“Please, be careful. I don’t know what Uhura’s going to do, if anything. But something tells me, and I’m rarely wrong, that there’s more information available about you than there ever had been, and that’s a bad thing. And I mean accessible information. Your full name. Your age. Proof of where you work, like, what you _really_ do, not a fake job. And I don’t mean Google search, but I mean someone, like an enemy, could find out who you are, find out where you live, find out where you’re going, and kill you.”

“Why would anyone want me dead?”

This time she rolls her eyes. “Are you even listening to me? This Uhura wants to get to Spock and Spock knows it and is using you as bait. You’re a carrot swinging in front of a horse. And if she takes the bait, then she can have someone kill you in your sleep and you wouldn’t be able to do a thing about you, because they know where you live and they can figure you out.”

“You sound more paranoid than I do,” Jim points out, taking a deep breath. Part of him believes her, despite the fact that he wants to scoff and shake his head and leave and never speak to her again. Carol is too smart to have false information, too smart to be so upset and to believe something that seems like it’d be impossible. But everything fits, with the way she describes it. Spock would do something like this; the Spock that Kirk knows would be petty enough to step back and use him as the hook, line, and sinker to destroy an old flame – or whoever the hell Uhura is.

“You have to be careful,” she says again, laying her hand flat on the table and staring hard at Kirk. “Please, I don’t…I don’t want to see you die a foolish death.”

“Carol, I’m not gonna die. I’m still highly trained. Does Spock think I’m going to go rogue or something?” he says, shaking his head and taking another sip of his coffee, though it’s cold by now.

Carol licks her lips and looks away, focusing on the cling of the bell as someone walks in through the front door. “That’s one of my theories, yes,” she admits. “That could be part of why you’re such easy bait. You’re young, and you’re experienced but – not as much as other agents,” she points out, and Jim can feel her tapping her foot under the table. “You also don’t have a lot to lose by breaking free. You have some freedom now to begin with, your own apartment. But you also have a father dead at the hands of people who have been around for a very long time. Spock knows you have reasons to leave. You’ve always been stubborn. Helpful, yes, I mean – your work is astounding, absolutely unbeatable.” 

Jim smiles and she rolls her eyes. “That’s not something to be proud of, considering you kill people for a price. Still, you’re sharp, you’re quiet, and you never leave behind evidence. There’s nothing to connect you to any of the killings you’ve performed. If you went rogue, you’d be a formidable foe against Spock, for whatever reason.”

“Why would I want to leave?”

Carol looks at him with a pitying smile. “We all know the real question is why wouldn’t you? You’re the most capable. You could be free before anyone else. There’s no one I’ve ever met like you.” This time Carol reaches across the table to take Jim’s hand. “Please,” she murmurs again, eyes wide, “get out while you can.”

Jim feels an ice cold surge sink through him.

“Thanks, Carol,” he says, just as quietly, leaning over the table to kiss her on the cheek. “I’m going home.”

“Jim…”

“I’ll be fine. Believe me.”

He picks up his coffee and waves to her as he heads out the door and back towards the parking lot. As soon as he sits down and places his cup in the cup holder, he slams both hands into the steering wheel.

-

Something about Jim’s expression changes in the following days. They bump into each other a couple of times on accident and McCoy thinks of tugging at the belt loops of Jim’s jeans but manages not to.

He sees sorrow in Jim’s eyes and it’s by the third day after the night they spent together that McCoy finally grabs his arm and stops him.

“You’re avoiding me,” he says, as Jim starts to tug away – he stops after a second and his eyes land on McCoy, cold and suspicious.

They soften as they stare at each other and Jim sighs. “I’m sorry,” he says, though something wavers in his tone. “I don’t mean to be like this,” he admits, and McCoy lets go of his arm. He had been waiting to hear Jim leave his apartment and had jumped from the couch and ran out in time to catch him as he was locking up. 

“Come here,” McCoy says, drawing Jim in and kissing him on the mouth. Jim kisses back but there’s underlying anxiety, his shoulders tense again. All the trust that had been overwhelming in the days before is gone, replaced by unease McCoy wonders if he can kiss it away but Jim draws back.

“Can I trust you?” Jim says.

“Probably not,” McCoy says, and the reaction is instant. Jim’s eyes widen before they narrow and then his entire body, every muscle, seems to crumble. He grabs McCoy’s shoulders and pushes him back, and McCoy stumbles until he hits the wall between their doors.

This time Jim kisses him and it’s absolute, like the seal of an unnamed deal. McCoy melts into it, wrapping his arms around Jim’s neck, appreciating the comfort of being pressed between a wall and Jim Kirk’s body.

A door down the hallway opens and Jim tears himself away, wiping his mouth on the back of his arm. The woman glares at them but McCoy just smiles and waves, leaning against the wall for the needed support. She heads down the stairs and as soon as she’s out of the building, Jim says again, “Can I trust you?”

“Absolutely not,” McCoy says, reaching out to cup Jim’s face in his hands. Jim still glares at him, eyes anxious even as he plants his hands on either side of McCoy’s body like a trap. If McCoy wasn’t who he was, he would be scared of that look in a prospective partner. He tries to navigate it like he might if he were a little scared, and not so hyperaware. “I’ve never seen you so aggressive,” he murmurs, and he can’t help the quickening of his heartbeat as he thinks about the danger behind Jim Kirk’s gaze and body. He brushes a hand along Jim’s cheek and chin.“I like it.”

“Would you just shut up?” Jim growls, grabbing McCoy by the collar and pulling him in again. When they kiss it’s hard, not romantic at all, barely even sexual because Jim is using too much teeth and tongue, pushing McCoy’s lips apart, his mouth open. McCoy changes tactics, instead wrapping an arm around Jim’s waist to hold him close.

When they pull apart they’re both out of breath.

“I’m sorry,” McCoy says, “if I did something to upset you.”

Jim looks at him again and licks his already raw lips. He sighs then, pressing his face against McCoy’s shoulder.

They stand there; quiet, for some five minutes. McCoy strokes a hand through Jim’s hair and down his back, keeping him steady for as long as he needs it.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” Jim says against McCoy’s skin. “You’re the only thing I know about for certain now, and sometimes I doubt even that. Bones.”

“Bones,” McCoy repeats with a soft laugh. “What’s going on, Jim? You can tell me.”

“No,” Jim whispers, “I can’t.”

As much as McCoy knows that’s true, he tries to keep it to himself. “Stay with me tonight,” he suggests. “I don’t know what you were planning, but if you have to go…come home. Come home and think of your home as with me, at least for tonight.”

“You make it sound like we’re soulmates, like I’ve known you for years.”

“Do you not believe in soulmates?”

“I don’t believe in souls.”

McCoy laughs again despite the tightness in Jim’s voice. “It’s going to be okay, alright? Come in with me. Please.”

Jim nods and follows McCoy into his apartment, lets himself be lead by the hand. McCoy has a sense that the problem is coming with Jim being suspicious, but he doesn’t breach it.

“When did you last eat?” he asks, and Jim looks at him again before sitting on the couch.

“What?”

“When did you last eat?” McCoy asks, hovering. “You seem – you seem like you could use something home cooked.”

Jim’s mouth twitches into a weak smile. “You can cook?”

“Shut up and answer the question.”

“Only if you promise not to poison me.” McCoy stares for a moment and Jim sighs. “I’m being weird, sorry,” he says, looking down. “I just…work stuff,” he mumbles, and McCoy has to force himself to stay relaxed, normal. He doesn’t know what that means, in this universe. In the universe where he’s Jim Kirk’s unaware neighbor, just a guy who went to med school and graduated and did an internship and worked at a hospital and hey, could even be a surgeon. McCoy could be amazing things in this universe where he doesn’t know Jim Kirk could kill him in two minutes while McCoy’s not paying attention. And it would be so much simpler that way.

He sits next to Jim instead and puts an arm around his shoulder, drawing him in. Jim lets himself be tugged, leaning on McCoy’s shoulder and chest. He breathes slowly and deeply for a few minutes as they sit together and then McCoy says, “That’s it. If you won’t tell me, I’ll make you grilled cheese.”

“That sounds good,” Jim replies, turning to press his nose against McCoy’s chest. “That sounds great, actually.”

“Good,” McCoy says, kissing his forehead because the action feels natural for the moment. “I’ll be right back.”

It happens, just like that. McCoy makes grilled cheese and they eat together like two people who could even, arguably, be normal. McCoy tries not to focus on his own guilt, the long suffering ache that fills his chest as he watches Jim takes sips of water. And Jim is trusting him, despite everything, not to poison him.

Although, McCoy wouldn’t do anything like that.

They fall into each other, uneven and hardly kindled flames and every moment makes it clearer and clearer to McCoy that Jim is searching for something impossible to find, something too far away for someone like him. Jim is looking for love but he has no idea what he’s going to do when he finds it.

He spends days in McCoy’s apartment, curled up at his side as they go through movies and kiss and eventually roll around each other. Jim strokes McCoy’s face and falls asleep in McCoy’s bed, and McCoy’s handgun remains locked in a metal box in the back of his closet, somewhere where he doesn’t have to think about it. He thinks instead about Uhura’s words and they echo through him, seep into his existence like poison. 

Death is a simple thing. He watches Jim sleep and thinks that sleep is the closest thing to death; he thinks about his dead father, he thinks about comas, he thinks about danger, he thinks about slipping off dangerous cliffs into endless oceans. He closes his eyes and touches Jim’s face, the dark circles around his eyes from stress.

He’s doing something he shouldn’t be. He kisses Jim on the mouth as he sleeps and then rests beside him, knowing it can’t last – but he can’t stop.

-

Jim lies on his back with his head on McCoy’s lap, listening to the sounds of the TV. It feels like that’s all he’s been doing for the last few days, resting with McCoy and breathing soundly and perceiving an easy life.

If only running away, as Carol had put it, was so easy. If only McCoy wasn’t real, but a fraction of his imagination, and he didn’t feel stuck in once place. How strange, to be pulled in by something and someone so quiet and seemingly powerless as Bones.

Yet – there’s still something missing. Jim’s heart sinks every time Bones steals out of the room to take a call but he never tries to figure out what he might be doing, and he steals out of the room to talk to Spock and Carol a couple of times as well.

Fear is a valuable motivator, and Jim knows the value all too well. If he could act on it, he’d be on the other side of the planet, as far as physically possible from Spock’s eyes and his claws and this woman, Uhura, and whatever petty plans she has for him. McCoy could still be enemy number one, sitting next to him and stroking his hair lazily. The truth, perhaps, is that they hate each other equally, and hide it in supposedly tender but bruising mouths, kisses that are sometimes more like bites. Jim loses himself in the presence of an older man with scruff and a small smirk.

“What should we do?” Jim asks in a whisper. McCoy moves slightly and stares down at him, Jim looking up with wide-open eyes.

“I don’t know what you’re asking,” McCoy says, playing his fingers over Jim’s jaw. “Why can’t we just stay here?” He looks up and watches the TV, the news playing on the crisp screen, a woman talking about the warm weather upcoming as the spring comes to an end. “Stay like this. Forever.”

“I don’t want to live here forever,” Jim says, resting his arm over his face and sighing. “Not in this apartment, not in this city.” He feels McCoy lean down and kiss the back of his hand.

“Why not? New York City is beautiful,” McCoy edges, twining his fingers together with Jim’s and lifting his hand from his face. “And these are nice apartments. Don’t tell me you want to move in a ranch house in the Carolinas with me now.”

“Shut up,” Jim whispers, but he smiles too. “Which Carolina?”

“Whatever you want,” McCoy murmurs, kissing him on the mouth now.

“I don’t know what I want,” Jim admits, almost too honest. He reaches out, clinging to the back of McCoy’s neck.

“This isn’t exactly comfortable,” he complains, “Sit up.”

“No. Don’t want to.”

Bones still manages to pull out of his grasp, settling back to sitting upright. “No one knows what they want, do they?” McCoy says, laying an arm over Jim’s chest. Jim struggles to push himself closer, grabbing McCoy’s shirt as he yanks himself up, pressing their foreheads together. “Hello.”

“You said I couldn’t trust you,” Jim whispers like an accusation.

McCoy smiles. “You can’t trust anyone these days.”

“Okay,” Jim says, kissing his cheek and then his jaw and then his nose and his lips. Bones keeps smiling and Jim trails his lips over to McCoy’s ear and then down his neck.

“What are you doing?” McCoy asks.

“Nothing,” Jim says, then starts sucking a bruise into McCoy’s skin on his shoulder, underneath his t-shirt.

“That doesn’t feel like nothing,” McCoy whispers. He rubs the back of Jim’s neck in slow circles and Jim pulls off, proud with the mark he’s left. “It _isn’t_ nothing, so I guess that’s why.”

“Don’t laugh,” Jim says. “I can’t help myself. When I’m around you.”

“Mm,” McCoy hums, moving his hand to rub his thumb along Jim’s face. “Is that so? Just can’t keep yourself together?”

“Not at all,” Jim says, letting himself laugh before pressing his nose into the other side of Bones’ neck. “You’re so warm and I’m so cold.”

“Maybe that’s because you refuse to wear anything except sweatpants to sleep,” McCoy muses, pulling him onto his lap. “And then you walk around the apartment all day in only jeans.”

“You don’t like the show?”

“I do, but you’re not putting on a show, you’re just lazy,” McCoy murmurs, kissing the top of Jim’s head.

He closes his eyes. There shouldn’t be any kind of physical or mental comfort earned by resting in the lap of Leonard McCoy, someone he knows nothing real about. A jobless nut, for all he knows, who really got fired for fucking up a surgery and killing a patient. And maybe he was going to get sued and he fled before he could be persecuted. Maybe Leonard McCoy is a fake name and he’s making a new identity. Maybe he’s European and just has a really convincing fake accent.

Or, maybe, something else. Jim doesn’t dare to think it. He’d rather believes McCoy’s pathetic story, he’d rather McCoy be a fucked up surgeon running from a law with a new, fake name. Then, at least, Jim could help him, or at least pretend to. In this universe, Kirk can find _hope_ , maybe even peace. In that universe, he could tell McCoy the truth and they could run away together. Maybe Spock was right – maybe he is more likely to go rogue than anyone else.

Neither of them speaks, and McCoy turns the TV on mute. Jim wants to pull himself away, wants to refocus, wants to not be afraid anymore, but he’s at ease here, and if it ever changes, his world will be rattled. Which just isn’t fair, after everything that Jim’s been through – doesn’t he deserve some semblance of comfort, even fleetingly?

“Let me make you lunch,” McCoy offers into the dark, and Jim nods against him. It’s almost a pattern, a habit, or at least it will be soon. Bones making lunch, standing in front of the stove or the oven or the microwave or even just making plain sandwiches and letting Jim watch him from the corner of the room. Jim eats whatever he makes and that seems to make McCoy smile, which is all he’s really after in the end. He’s got a good kind of smile, the kind of smile that makes people melt because it’s honest and a little broken, and says more about McCoy and his fucked up life than he himself has. Jim imagines that there’s a lot of pain behind those laughter lines and those tired eyes.

They eat lunch again that day, PB&J sandwiches that remind Jim of the kind his mother used to make, though there’s nothing particular or special about them, just grape jelly and smooth peanut butter and wheat bread. McCoy doesn’t cut off the crust. 

Even in all his sulking, Jim smiles through the meal because it’s quintessential and makes him feel like a ten year old again. These are the moments where he doesn’t feel dangerous for once. He doesn’t feel like he was trained underground for years, and eating a sandwich and chatting with McCoy makes him forget what holding a gun is like. He hasn’t had to touch one in so long. 

McCoy asks, “Can I ever visit your apartment again?” and Jim falters, has to pause to cough and clean his throat.

“You want to come over? Why?” he says. The dreamy image he had imagined starts to sink away and he comes back to reality.

“Well,” McCoy says, clearing his throat and drinking out of his glass of water. He shrugs and finishes chewing and swallows. “I think that, maybe, being at home, for you…would be a good change of scenery.” He says it with a sense of caution, glancing at Jim to test his reaction. Jim stays quiet, keeps his expression closed off, watching and waiting. “I think it might help you get back to yourself. You just seem…sad.” Jim presses his lips together and McCoy gives him a half-apologetic smile. “I know you’ve been over there. It’s not like you’ve not left, like you’ve not been at your own place, but. You’ve been at mine pretty much…nonstop.” McCoy takes another bite of his sandwich, close to finishing it off, and Jim can feel that it’s McCoy giving him a moment to think about it. He raises an eyebrow at Jim as he sips the water again. “Sorry. Is that asking too much?”

“N-no,” Jim stutters, drops his gaze. “Sorry, just…not what I expected you to say,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s kind of…strange.”

“It kind of feels like you’ve been here and you’ve snuck yourself into all the crevices of my life.” Jim stares for a minute and McCoy chuckles. “And you haven’t let me into yours, at all. I still don’t know what you do to pay the rent,” he points out, and Jim almost chokes, shaking his head and clearing his throat. McCoy offers him another weak smile and a sigh. “I’m just teasing, Jim.”

Jim narrows his eyes for a minute and then shrugs, picking up his plate and stepping to the dishwasher, putting it away. “You’re right,” he says, choosing not to turn around and look at McCoy. “I haven’t really told you anything.” He glances over his shoulder and McCoy is watching him with, hardly blinking. “I’m not very good at honesty.” He pauses, considering adding _in relationships_ but decides to leave that unsaid, at least for today.

“Well,” McCoy says, “Is there anyway I could convince you that I wasn’t lying when I said you couldn’t trust me?” Jim turns around and frowns at McCoy’s smirk, biting his tongue. In that moment it seems easy enough to admit the truth. He could explain the world away and maybe makes Bones understand.

But, looking at Bones, looking at his expression, Jim knows it’s not that simple. “I believe you,” he says with a shrug. He opens the refrigerator, his hands restless, and there’s a moment of silence before he feels a hand on his shoulder. He glances back and McCoy winds his arms around his waist, holding on gently. Jim listens to McCoy’s breathing and listens to his own and his heart clenches and then feels like it falls in his stomach. He can’t stand with this comfort. He can’t be allowed to access it.

“I think I’m gonna go home.” McCoy’s lips brushing over his neck, his quiet breath. “For a night or two. To get my bearings. I’ll text you.”

McCoy hums. “Whatever you need,” he says, and to Jim he sounds like he means it. “Whatever you want.” He kisses Jim’s bare shoulder and smiles against his skin. “Just take all your clothes when you go. And wash them, here? I’m not wasting my washing machine on you.”

Jim gives a feeble grunt and then whispers, “Fine.” Turning around in McCoy’s arms he touches his face and kisses him again, long and deep, uncharacteristic. “Rest up, okay?” Jim says. “I want you in tip-top shape when you come over.”

McCoy presses their foreheads together. “So I’m invited? Is that a promise?”

“Yeah,” Jim murmurs and then repeats, “I’ll text you. Or call you, not sure which.”

“I’ll wait to hear from you.”

Jim slides away from McCoy and gathers his clothes from around the apartment. A couple of pairs of his jeans are strewn across the floor in McCoy’s bedroom, and he tries not to feel any embarrassment as he gathers them and the underwear that’s also been thrown around. He folds up what he can and when he leaves the bedroom, McCoy is sitting on the couch again, looking out the window.

“I’ll see you,” Jim says hastily as he opens the door. McCoy nods and waves over his shoulder, not sparing Jim another look. “G’bye.”

He drops his clothes on the floor as soon as he gets into his apartment and, once the door is shut, slides down it and begins to cry.

-

McCoy gets a text from Uhura later that day, telling him to meet her at a restaurant downtown tomorrow night. He frowns at the message, raking his mind for any clue as to why Uhura would invite him to a fancy dinner. He hasn’t gotten back to her about much of anything, biding his time and afraid to invade Kirk’s home. He had been planning on doing that when Kirk invited him over, maybe to steal his phone in the middle of the night and hack it (he had done some Google searching and spoken with Sulu about the possibility of getting into a newer model of an iPhone), or steal one of those pills and ship it off the headquarters to get it checked up on. Little things, but little things he can argue are important, or at least would be in the future.

But he hadn’t done either of those things, or even e-mailed Uhura back after she had told him to reply when he had more intel – and that was because he didn’t have anything to give her except embarrassing stories of Jim walking in on him in the shower and then scooting in himself after McCoy’s feeble protests. And – McCoy isn’t exactly planning on sharing his sex stories with Uhura, for a plethora of reasons.

Sighing, he texts Jim a short _wont be home tmrw night, meeting w/a friend in town 4 dinner. txt me when u can, see u soon_. He sends the message with only a hint of underlying guilt at the falsehood of his message. Jim is lying to him too, he reminds himself, because he knows what Jim really does.

He also knows, with some certainty, that Jim has probably killed people.

He tries to block that out of his mind and focus instead of the hickey on his throat, a careless reminder of what happens when he gets too absorbed in another person’s being. It’s unfair, he concludes, and spends the rest of the day pacing restlessly around his own apartment, wondering what the hell Uhura wants.

Jim doesn’t text him back.

McCoy gets ready the next night in his bedroom, dressed in a semi-formal suit and skinny tie. He even shaves and washes his face twice with nerves.

Uhura has made reservations at the restaurant downtown, something with a French name that he can’t recall and whose menu doesn’t list prices on the side.

“Agent McCoy,” Uhura says, holding out her hand for him to shake as he’s lead to her table. It’s in the corner of a giant, chandelier lit room, a beautiful dining area that makes McCoy feel out of place in his not entirely formal suit. He feels like he should be in a tuxedo and have his hair slicked back.

“Miss Uhura.”

They sit down and McCoy can’t stop himself from asking, “Why am I here?”

“Mmm,” Uhura hums, and she’s smiling as she peers at the menu. “You know, I already know what I want. What about you, McCoy?”

He frowns and picks up his own menu, frustrated that Uhura isn’t answering his question. A waiter comes by and gives them the drink specials – Uhura immediately orders a bottle of their best red wine. McCoy smiles and says he’ll have a glass of water.

“I’ll be back with your drinks and the dinner specials,” the waiter says, and hurries away.

“Are you gonna answer my question?” McCoy says, pretending to have his nose stuck in the menu, although he doesn’t understand half of the items listed. Uhura laughs across from him, under her breath, and folds her hands on top of her own menu. Her posture is perfect, McCoy notices from the corner of his eye.

“Can’t I want to treat my favorite agent? You don’t have to order water, I’m paying,” Uhura says, and McCoy shrugs.

“Not in your nature,” he admits, and the waiter comes back, pouring Uhura and McCoy both glasses of wine after he sets down McCoy’s glass of water. The waiter rattles off the specials and McCoy picks one to remember and recites it. Uhura points out a long name in her menu and tells the waiter what she’d like it with, but McCoy isn’t paying enough attention to catch her specifications – though he doesn’t care, either.

“You’re right, but you’re a special case,” Uhura says after a beat when the waiter leaves to send in their orders. “And I’m sort of in a bit of a rush here, I think – well, I think we’re close to being caught.”

McCoy peers at her, frowning. “Do you mean legally?” he asks. He wouldn’t be surprised. Which isn’t to say that Uhura isn’t good at keeping things in check, but being as underground as they are, metaphorically, there are bound to be slip ups. It doesn’t help that only parts of the CIA are aware of her involvement, and of their existence as a whole. If the right person told the next right person, things could crumble and collapse without so much as a second thought. Fall like dominoes, except not quite as neat.

“No,” Uhura says, pressing her red lips into a thin, tight line. “Though maybe I should look into that, thank you, Agent.” He rolls his eyes. “I mean, that I think Spock is more aware than ever.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“It means you need to hurry up and do your job.” Her voice is sharp and there’s that tinge of metal and rust in her tone that says she’s serious. 

McCoy shifts in his seat and looks down at his menu, pretending to be interested in the food pictured on the cover.

“I’m sorry,” he says after a moment of tense silence. “I’ve been…procrastinating.”

She hums. “Of course you have been. Getting under the skin of other people is always a nasty job, but I’m sure it takes a lot of effort to really get someone to…trust you. If you have any reason to doubt the success of your mission,” Uhura says, her voice smooth like honey, “you can always back out.”

He knows that isn’t true but he doesn’t waste his breath saying as much. The waiter comes by with their food, and McCoy wonders how long it’s been. Uhura smiles and pours herself another glass of wine before reaching out and adding more to McCoy’s not quite empty glass.

“It’s good,” he admits, sipping the drink. He gets buzzed easily, but this isn’t leaving a pleasant ringing in his head, just a thick taste on his tongue. 

“The mission, or the wine?”

“Both,” he says and starts to dig into his platter of – whatever the hell he ordered. When he puts it in his mouth, it tastes good.

“You know you ordered horse heart, yes?”

He shrugs. “Not a picky eater,” he says between bites. 

“You never replied, to tell me how it was going.” Uhura is stabbing at her own meal with precision, like it’s wronged her, but she almost manages to be gentle. A gentle murderer; that’s one way to describe Uhura that McCoy had never considered, and now it seems like the best way.

“I think I can get into his phone, in the next few days. As long as everything…goes the way I’d hoped.” He hesitates, takes a bite and chews for as long as he can, savoring the flavor and trying not to think too hard about where it came from. He takes another sip from his glass before he continues. “Stealing one of those pills should be easy enough. I don’t think that J – that Kirk has caught onto me at all, really. I think he has…his own anxieties, because of his own job. But I don’t know much. He keeps a lot to himself, which makes sense. But my cover story seems believable for now. He doesn’t seem to doubt me.” 

It’s a lie, but it’s an easy enough one that doesn’t come across that way because as much as McCoy knows that Jim harbors every doubt about him, questions his every movement. Uhura doesn’t need to know that, at least not right now. She’s already urging him to pick up the pace, and hurrying things is the opposite of what McCoy wants. He wants safety. He wants quiet. He wants peace.

“It could be dangerous. You never know what people can do with little pieces of medicine. You should know that better than anyone.” When Uhura smiles, it’s poisonous.

He glares at her and she smirks. “Just because you can hang that over my head, doesn’t mean you have to be an asshole about it.”

Uhura lets out a surprised laugh. “You’re quite the charmer,” she says, sipping her wine and eating her dinner in tiny bites. “Oh McCoy, what would we do without you?”

He doesn’t answer the question, stomach churning.

He frowns at her when she says, “I’m going to set you up.”

“What?”

“He’ll be at a party – Jim Kirk, I mean – a gala thrown by a very rich local politician, for young and up and rising politicians in New York City.” She smirks and leans back in her chair. “I’m going to get you in.”

“But…why?” McCoy’s mouth drops and he shakes his head. “I don’t know if my cover is _that_ good,” he says, taking another sip of the wine. It doesn’t quite sit well this time as he swallows it, shifting in his seat. “He’s just beginning to trust me, I can –”

Uhura gives him a sharp look that shuts him up. “Good boy,” she says with a laugh, her demeanor changing in seconds. “Look, Leonard,” she starts, patting her mouth with a napkin – her red lipstick doesn’t even budge. “I’m getting impatient. I know what I told you originally but things are…changing.” She places her napkin on her lap and twirls her fork between her fingers. 

Her voice is acidic when she speaks up again after they both take a couple more bites. “ _Mr. Spock_ has been making my job very hard.” He looks up and frowns at her. “Don’t worry, he still doesn’t know of you, as far as I can tell. The boy doesn’t know you’re tailing him, right?” McCoy shakes his head. “And you’re sleeping with him?”

Hesitantly, McCoy nods affirmation. ‘Sleeping together’ doesn’t seem like the right thing to say, but he decides not to elaborate.

“Good.” She tosses her head back and sighs at the ceiling. “Let’s just say, Spock and I have a history.”

“What?” McCoy sets down his silverware and leans across the table, staring at her. “You have a history with the head of an opposing illegal _spy_ agency? Seriously?” It doesn’t sound any less ridiculous out loud than it does in his head. He’s…baffled. But somehow, not exactly surprised.

“Well, when you say it like that,” Uhura says with a huff, shaking her head. He sits back, still frowning. “Anyway, he likes to make things hard for me. He thinks I’m unnecessary.”

“Can’t you both just…” McCoy’s voice feels weak and he can barely dare to speak his mind. “Play in your own corners of the sandbox?”

She shoots daggers through her eyes at him and a sharp breath escapes through her flared nostrils. “That’s not the point. And _you_ ,” she says, pointing a thin finger at him, “are under orders. And you’re going very, very slow.” She accentuates each word with a poke at the air and McCoy cringes. The first dinner she had had with him, about a month back when he had discovered the blue pills, had been much more pleasant. He feels guilty, like he’s letting his boss down on an important project – and really, that’s not inaccurate. “You don’t have feelings for this kid, do you?”

She’s raising an eyebrow at him now, her lips curled into an accusatory smirk. Her eyes sink into him, still like sharp daggers that dare him to make a mistake, to admit something he doesn’t _want_ to admit. Not yet.

He reaches for his glass of wine and takes a sip. “He’s got a good ass,” he says, and it’s true. Uhura lets out a laugh but she seems satisfied with the answer, assuming it’s a no. McCoy’s stomach and chest twist into knots and he forces himself to breathe. Lying to Uhura has never been easy, but there’s more on the line now than ever before. He takes a deeper sip.

“Good to hear,” she says, obviously assuming the answer is a _No_. McCoy closes his eyes for a beat and wishes it was. He certainly never expected to be attracted to someone who could kill him at a moment’s notice. And it isn’t as though he _wants_ to let Uhura down. She’s been good to him.

In her own way. He rubs his lips together and crosses his ankles under the table. The waiter brings them another bottle of wine and asks if they’d like any dessert. Uhura shakes her head and adds, “The bill is fine,” in a sparkly voice.

McCoy supposes her charisma is likely how she keeps a leadership position with such ease. He does admire her.

She turns her attention back to him, pushing her now empty plate to the side to rest her hands on the table, folded together. “Feelings, as I’ve learned and I’m sure you know, get in the way of work.” She smiles, and if it’s supposed to be sweet and comforting, it has likely the opposite effect. “Your job is still the number one priority. And, as I was saying, this party will help you do your job and prove your worth.” The waiter leaves the bill and she immediately hands him a silver credit card, shooting him a stunning smile. “You want to prove your worth, yeah?”

“Of course I do,” he answers, almost a snap. He’s tired of dancing around this – if she’s just tell him to kill the guy, he could have it over with by the next day. Jim Kirk, found dead in his apartment. He could make it look like a suicide with enough careful planning. His medical training would make it impossible to tell with regards to the precision of a bullet in Kirk’s mouth. The idea itself causes more twists in McCoy’s belly, uncomfortable and angry. He opens the fresh bottle since it’s already there and pours himself another glass of wine. Uhura takes the bottle by the neck and does the same.

When he glances at her, Uhura is looking at him, eyes cold. “Of course I do,” he says, more softly, dropping his gaze. “Miss Uhura.”

“Better,” she says, picking up her wine glass and swirling the deep red liquid around before she swallows it. No stains left behind on the glass from her lips. “Look, McCoy,” she says, less seriously now, half smiling at him. “I trust you to get the job done because I know what you’re capable of.” She straightens out her shoulders. “I know you’re capable of a lot…better.”

He swallows, unsure what he’s done to bring out that tone of voice. “Yes, ma’am,” he says and she laughs.

“Don’t get too uptight, McCoy.” The waiter is back with the receipt and she stands as soon as she tucks it into her purse. “I’ll get in touch with you tomorrow, alright? Let you know what’s going on, give you some time to prep. Make sure you have a nice suit, okay? That’ll make things run a lot smoother.”

McCoy just nods.

-

Jim receives a ticket in the mail exactly a week before the proposed event. He looks at it, lined with shimmery gold, turning it over in his hand. It reminds him too much of a past that seems distant and lonely. He doesn’t want to go back to living like that, even if it had been easy in ways.

He tries to think of a way to respond late to Bones’ text, which he looks at every day. Shorthand, telling him he’d be gone a few nights ago. Jim ponders things like whether or not McCoy has hidden weapons too, or a dark past that he hasn’t admitted to Jim that could make everything be okay again.

Lying is dangerous. He swallows his cowardice and steps out into the hall, waving politely at the woman across the hall that scowls at him. He wonders if the walls aren’t as thick as he remembered but plasters a smile on his face as he knocks on the next door.

Jim focuses but hears nothing. He’s about to turn around and head back to his apartment when the door swings open. McCoy’s hair is mussed and his eyes are heavy, tired, dark circles and five o’clock shadow outlining the exhaustion that catches Jim off guard. His jeans hang loose on his hips and the shirt he’s wearing is crinkled.

“Um,” Jim says, and remembers a phone call that McCoy had woken him up with not long ago, “Did I just wake you?” He smiles and McCoy shakes his head.

“Sorry, I look like crap. Stress.”

Jim raises an eyebrow. “Oh? Work related?”

“As in I still don’t have a job and rent’s due in a week?” Bones snickers, glancing to the floor and then up at Jim. “Something like that.”

“I wanted to see you.”

“I was waiting for you to text me,” McCoy says warily, shrugging. “I figured you didn’t want to talk.”

“I didn’t. I’m sorry.”

“Did I do something? Did we fight and I don’t know it?”

“Can I come in?”

This time McCoy raises an eyebrow but he nods as well, opening the door and stepping further into the apartment. “Welcome back.”

“You said I should think of you as my home,” Jim comments, peering at the walls. He’s more focused on the appearance of the apartment now, looking for signs that he should run. Carol had certainly upped the anxiety factor, and as the days draw closer and his next mission hangs on the horizon, Jim can’t help but wonder if McCoy is going to be the one to kill him. He licks his lips and said, “I never really had a home.”

“You’re young,” McCoy points out, sitting down at the kitchen table. Jim stands, shifting his weight between legs and trying to find a comfortable way to hold his hands. He ends up crossing them over his chest and he can feel Bones watching him, observing the stance, probably wondering why he’s so wound up. “It’s okay to not have a home.”

“Why me?”

“Why you, what? Why don’t you have a home? That’s a question for you – ”

“No, why did you seek me out?”

“Did I? Always felt like you were a bit more of the seeker in this game. Though maybe from some perspectives, I could understand…”

“Shut up, Bones, just. I don’t get it!” They look at each other for a long moment and though McCoy’s frown is deep, it’s also thoughtful. 

“There are a million reasons,” McCoy says, running a hand through his hair. “I couldn’t tell you all of them. It would take ages to list.” His voice strains and Jim feels a pang in his chest.

“You look sick,” he mumbles and McCoy chuckles. “You should go back to sleep.”

“I’ve been sleepin’ too much, don’t suggest I crawl back into bed because I will.” They look at each other and Jim’s breath catches in his throat. He takes a deep breath and lets it out, trying to reach equilibrium. 

“I just had to work out some things,” Jim says, diving into his own issues and clasping his hands in front of his stomach. “And I couldn’t do that and not feel like I was letting you down somehow, like I was…going behind your back.” He cringes at his own phrasing and shakes his head. “I can’t explain it, I can’t explain it yet but I want to, I do, I want to tell you and I want to make it – real.”

“Oh?” is all McCoy says. He stands up and walks over to the coffee maker, starts to busy his hands by brewing. “Do you want some coffee?” His voice breaks.

Jim whispers, “Yes,” if only because he thinks it’ll keep him in the apartment for a little longer. They stand in silence as McCoy let’s the pot brew, not looking at Jim for even a moment, his hands clasped on the edge of the counter. 

Bones pours them both fresh mugs of coffee and sets one down at his previous seat and the other at the second chair across from him. Jim slides into the seat and wraps his fingers around the mug. The heat is enough to make him twitch but he holds on, running his tongue along his teeth and then leaning down to blow across the surface of the coffee.

McCoy takes slow and solemn sips, his eyes trained on the table.

“Something changed,” he says. “That’s okay. People change, relationships change. We haven’t known each other very long, remember. And you don’t believe in soulmates.”

“No, I don’t,” Jim admits and his coffee is still scalding hot when he takes a sip – he almost sputters. “God, how do you heat your damn coffee?” He looks up in time to see Bones smile. “Bones,” he says, voice strained, “I can’t make any promises, but…”

“Then don’t. It’s alright. We can come together when we have the time.”

“Please come over.”

McCoy looks at him and narrows his eyes. “Excuse me?”

“Please,” Jim whispers, “I don’t know what else to do. I feel like my skin is constantly itching, like…I can’t explain it. My head isn’t on right. And I don’t know if it’s you or just what’s going on but I think – when you’re around – you’re a distraction.”

McCoy laughs but it’s hollow. “Is that right?”

“Bones, please,” Jim says, can hardly hide the fact that he’s close to begging, “I’m afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

Jim holds his tongue. “I can’t tell you that.”

“Are you afraid of me?”

“No.”

That seems to catch McCoy off guard. He frowns and then takes another swallow of his coffee. “Fine,” he says after a minute, “I’ve been wanting to be over there anyway,” he admits. “Though I can’t…I don’t know how long I can stay.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jim says hastily, “Just one night is more than enough. One more night. I have to get you out of my system.”

McCoy looks at him. “You got some fucked up concepts of love, kid.”

“Who said anything about love?”

Maybe they understand each other on a fundamental level because McCoy doesn’t question him, just smiles and they finish their coffee, McCoy moving around his own apartment and gathering a fresh change of clothes. He says, “Do you care if I shower now or should I wait?” and Jim automatically says “Wait,” because the idea of Bones using his shower is just too good to be true. In fact, it’s all too good to be true, but he pushes that gruesome reminder out of his head and smiles instead.

-

Jim buys into the lazy haze of McCoy’s last couple of days with him, still calling him ‘Bones’ as he nips on McCoy’s jaw, runs his hands down McCoy’s chest, kisses him. McCoy keeps his eyes closed for most of it, planning, in his head, how he’ll be spending the night awake and researching, probably texting Sulu for help on hacking the phone he plans to steal while Jim sleeps peacefully.

They end up in bed, sliding against each other in a mess of sweat and tangled arms. McCoy had showered earlier but he thinks he’ll have to do it again and by the way they’re both panting, he knows he’s letting off plenty of steam.

Jim comes first with a stutter of his hips, nearly collapses on top of McCoy but doesn’t stop jacking him off between their bodies. Before he comes too, McCoy manages to twist his fingers tight in Jim’s hair and bite his ear, and the soft moan he elicits works him over the edge. Jim slides down to McCoy’s stomach and licks up his come without a thought or question and McCoy keeps his hand in Jim’s hair, looser now, holding onto him.

He’s amazed and clearly so is Jim, who rolls over onto his back and groans before burying his face in his pillow. “I’m going to sleep,” McCoy hears Jim say into the fabric and he laughs.

“Good night,” he whispers, and waits until Jim’s body is loose to roll out of bed and head to the shower. After he’s showered and dressed in clean underwear, he starts to scour the apartment. He checks the pockets of Jim’s jeans first and pulls out a phone – when he presses the button at the bottom, the screen lights up – “slide to unlock”. After the slide screen is a number passcode screen, asking for four numbers.

Quietly, he shifts out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, where he sits down with his own phone and puzzles over. He does some quick math – ten numbers, four numbers to choose from. Order counts, numbers can be repeated. That leaves him with…ten thousand possible combinations.

He pauses for a moment and focuses. He’s considering texting Sulu but he doesn’t think it’s worth the effort; at this point, if he can just focus – usually Jim doesn’t touch _this_ phone when they’re in the same room, but McCoy has caught him unlocking his personal phone to send texts or to check personal e-mails. He knows the difference between the phones because this one has a dark blue case and the other has a green one. He would have thought Jim might not be quite so careless with such an important device, but on the other hand – sex is distracting.

McCoy is guilty. He swallows it down and squeezes his eyes shut. He focuses for a moment, thinks about Jim, imagines him in his mind. What does he do every time he unlocks his phone? Thumb starts at the bottom. Then, up to the top row – two taps. Then back to the middle.

The first number is zero. McCoy taps that into the phone. More focus, the two taps on the top row, right, left, middle? Right. Zero and three. 03. It’s easy, but terrifying. Maybe he has five tries. He can do this in five tries before Jim’s phone self-destructs. Metaphorically.

Top row still. Right, left, middle. 032. Bottom, right, middle. One number left. He stares at the middle row, 4, 5, 6. Left, middle, right. Where does Jim’s finger slide to? Focus. Bottom, right, middle. Middle, middle – 5. 0325.

“Shit,” he whispers as the phone lights up with the background of apps. He’s shaking and he drops the phone. 0325 – he can remember that. He gets up and grabs the bottle of pills out of the fridge, picking one out before he sets the bottle back down. When he sits down the phone has gone back to black and he unlocks the screen again, shocked when he succeeds.

Every gut feeling is telling him he should stop. Stick the phone back in Jim’s back pocket and crawl into bed and remember the amazing orgasm from earlier.

Despite everything, he still feels like he’s betraying Jim’s trust. And despite that, he opens Jim’s contacts and grabs a notepad to write down every number he finds, regardless of name. _Carol_ , _Scotty_ , and finally _Spock_. Names he doesn’t recognize he jots down anyway. He wonders who these people are; friends, coworkers the way Sulu is to him. The only person he knows by name is Spock and even that’s questionable. He opens Kirk’s calendar and there’s a date marked next week, the same day as the gala that Uhura had set him up the attend. He takes a deep breath, closes the table, opens messages – but there’s nothing, all deleted. He checks the e-mail but there isn’t one attached to the phone. Keeping his breath steady he marks down whatever else he can find and then rips the sheet out of the notepad and takes the pill, stepping back into the bedroom where he slides them into his pocket. He puts Jim’s phone back into his pocket as well, nothing changed to alert Jim of the hacking. Jim, of course, is fast asleep, naked but covered by his own sheets. McCoy takes off his jeans and folds them next to the bed and crawls in beside Jim, spooning him.

Sleep doesn’t come easy that night.

-

The comfort remains, but to Jim it’s dragged out. He’s irrational and erratic, twitching every morning and turning away so he doesn’t have to look McCoy in the eye. The distance that Bones puts between them doesn’t help, and he wonders if he’s treading too lightly.

“I want to talk to you,” he says from under McCoy’s body. Bones is kissing down his neck but he pauses and looks up with a puzzled expression, frowning.

“What’s up?” he says, and they sit up together on Jim’s couch. It’s been four days since McCoy had come over and made himself a semi-permanent fixture in his home, and Jim is starting to suffocate on the sweetness of lazy kisses and the mind-numbing sex they’ve been having.

“I have to tell you the truth.”

McCoy kisses him again, grabbing the back of his head and keeping him still. Jim moans and shivers as he’s pushed back against the couch, onto his back. “Hey,” he breathes, pressing a hand to McCoy’s chest. “What are you doing?”

“Shutting you up,” Bones says, tugging at the bottom of Jim’s t-shirt. “Stopping you from doing something you will seriously regret.”

“How do you know that? Oh,” Jim says, breath hitching as McCoy bites down gently on his shoulder and then licks over the skin. “Please,” he says, unsure if he’s asking McCoy to keep going or to let him talk.

The truth stings. Maybe McCoy really does know. He clings instead and let’s McCoy suck him off on the couch again. It’s reminiscent of weeks ago, and he wonders if that’s on purpose. McCoy even gets up afterwards and heads to the bathroom where he brushes his teeth.

“You’re really good at that,” Jim says, sitting up and pulling his jeans back over his hips.

“What, sucking your cock?” says McCoy with a laugh.

“No. Distractions.”

“Look,” Bones says, sitting down and taking Jim’s face in his hands. He kisses his cheek and then his mouth and Jim sighs. Then McCoy presses his mouth to each of his temples and finally, his forehead. “You’re going to make a mistake, I can feel it, and I…I don’t want that to happen too soon.”

Jim clenches his fingers around McCoy’s arms. “Don’t say things like that,” he murmurs, “I don’t know what you mean. I don’t know why you have to say things like that. It scares me.”

“It should,” McCoy says. “I’ll stay tonight, alright? But I thought you were just trying to get me out of your system. That’s what you said. Like I was a disease or some kind of fever for you to sweat out.”

“Yeah, well,” Jim says, clearing his throat and forcing a smile. He licks his lips and initiates the kiss, pulling Bones closer. “I was lying,” he mumbles and McCoy smiles with him. “I don’t want you to leave, Bones.”

“I don’t really want to go anywhere either,” McCoy says softly, stroking his hand along Jim’s hair and then pressing his thumb into the nape of his neck. “Just believe me, would you believe me?”

“Believe you about what?”

“That it will be okay. That when I leave, and when you leave, whichever happens first, it will be okay.”

“I don’t know,” Jim says, and swallows as to not feel so fragile. He nudges his nose into Bones’ neck and they sit together, McCoy’s hand drawing patterns along his bare back. It’s comfortable, but it still doesn’t sit quite right.

McCoy does stay the night. They leave the apartment to get takeout from a Chinese place down the street, laugh at each other but Jim’s own voice feels hollow and he tries to keep his mind on taking every step, on how Bones’ eyes crinkle when he smiles or chuckles, the way he smokes a cigarette and leaves Jim alone for quiet moments, eating and waiting. They sleep without sex for the last night, Jim afraid to initiate anything too intimate after the afternoon, and McCoy doesn’t do anything either, just slides his warm hands along Jim’s skin and kisses his neck and shoulder.

McCoy leaves the next morning and the apartment feels haunted. They’re neighbors and they see each other in the hall, wave and move past each other, even share a cigarette on a Friday night, the day before the party that has Jim so nervous and anxious it feels like he’s thrumming with it.

It’s better this way, though, he thinks on Saturday night. If McCoy was here he’d have to explain himself – he doesn’t send a text the way McCoy had saying he’ll be out tonight because he doesn’t expect to be bothered. Bones is probably still trying to get a job or whatever the hell, dealing with his own life in ways that Jim never has to. Jim even hears him leave the building a few times, without coming back for hours.

He leaves the apartment, ticket in the breast pocket of his suit jacket, at four in the afternoon on Saturday, just as Spock had told him. By the time he arrives, his nerves have dwindled – he’s greeted at the front door of a fancy hotel downtown by a man in a similarly expensive suit. This is the guy that Spock had sent him a photo of; they nod and shake hands and enter the building together.

“Name’s Jack,” he says, “I assume Mr. Spock told you I’d be here.”

Jim snorts, nods. “Yeah, call me Kirk.”

Jack narrows his eyes. “Mhmm, alright,” he says. “Well, I’m not entirely sure why you’re here to begin with, Agent. I’ve got this under control.”

Jim bites his tongue. He feels _back_ somehow, out of the funk that being around McCoy had put him in. It seems clear that this is the life he belongs in and that there’s no escaping – and why the hell would he want to escape? For a liar with bad taste who wants to kill him? But he’s got competition now, and it feels like home in a way that makes Jim’s stomach twist and sink. At least this time, the twisting and sinking is familiar and not new.

-

McCoy hears Kirk leave at four in the afternoon on the Saturday of the party he’s planned to attend. He’s nervous, unsure how Jim will react to his presence, but he hopes that nothing will go as planned and that he’ll be able to get out early. He also hopes that having found Jim’s contacts and just generally having hacked his phone will be enough for Uhura. He had sent her an e-mail the day after telling her about his discoveries. He had been glad to be home and alone as he exchanged e-mails with her, but she had assured him that going to this party was still necessary.

According to Uhura, the party is supposed to begin at 5:30 with the serving of a dinner bar and expensive wine. He asks her as they go back and forth with e-mails how Uhura has this information. She says she’d rather not tell him her tactics and he rolls his eyes. It’s almost classic of her at this point.

Still, she seems pleased that he’s sent off the little blue pill and gotten the numbers. She says they will be ‘helpful’, though he isn’t sure exactly what that means, especially coming from Uhura. 

Looking at the suit jacket hanging on the bathroom door, McCoy takes a shower, combs his hair, trims his scuff, and puts on the clothes, all the while feeling like he's someone he really isn't. He heads out at around 5, getting into his car and following the directions that Uhura had sent directly to the vehicle's GPS.

When he arrives, he's surprised at how small the building is, and how few cars are parked outside. This only intensifies his worst fear of being confronted by Jim and having to answer for his strange appearance. The last week or so had changed so much about McCoy’s outlook, things he doesn’t want to admit. He convinces himself that he’s still just doing his job, but he knows that nothing about it is really even close to true anymore. Every passing day just feels more like a betrayal of Jim, instead of Uhura. Dangerous – a word he’s thought about frequently. Dangerous, and deceptive. That’s what they both are by this point, Kirk and McCoy.

McCoy purses his lips and glances again at the photo on his phone of the girl - woman - who's supposed to be playing his sister for the night, his reason for being there. He had never mentioned a sister to Kirk, never even thought of making up a family. He doesn’t really remember what he’s told Jim about his family, though he knows it isn’t much because he hasn’t said the worst part. The girl is blonde, younger than him by the look in her eyes, and in the photo she has nude pink lips and almost blue eyes. The resemblance is vague, but they can pull it off. He pockets his phone inside of his jacket and heads out of his car.

He enters through the front door, pulling his fake ticket from his pocket. The man at the door takes the ticket and nods, and McCoy signs in at the front desk. It's a small hotel, clearly made for these kind of parties by the gold tinge that everything has, the crystal chandeliers glittering on the ceiling. McCoy tries to feel at home as he looks for the other agent, a woman he doesn't even know, who's supposed to be his sister. He doesn't see Kirk or the girl yet, and it isn't like he's particularly early.

He frowns and decides to settle at a table that is inconspicuous and in the corner, clearly not marked for anyone in particular. He scans the room and his eyes finally rest on Jim Kirk.

Jim is near the podium in the front of the large, expanded dining room. He's holding a glass of chardonnay and laughing as he talks up another man, taller with dark skin and a much slicker suit than McCoy's, up front. McCoy isn't sure if this is one of the politicians that Kirk is stalking, but he has to admit that Kirk must be doing his job fairly well if he's already in the in crowd, without even being invited.

McCoy's sister stops in front of him. "Hello," she says, and then sits down. She gives no other sign of interest in him, picking at her fingernail. "Uhura says you're sleeping with the enemy," she says after a short moment and McCoy clears his throat.

"I - I hardly think that's - whose damn business is that?" he says, glaring at his her. She just shrugs as if she's uninterested, and that almost makes McCoy more annoyed. He lets it sizzle down, and just as he's looking back up to find Jim in the crowd again, their eyes meet.

The shock on Jim’s face rings as funny at first but then becomes terrifying. He's closer than before, at a table nearer to McCoy and his sister His blue eyes are wide, his mouth hanging slightly open. Luckily, he wasn't in the middle of talking to someone, and McCoy sees the way he straightens up and catches himself from the momentary shock.

And then, without warning, he comes right over.

"Bones," he says, greeting McCoy and McCoy only. He holds out his hand and McCoy takes it, gives it a squeeze that is supposed to be both comforting and predatory, though he's not sure if that's even really important. "What are you doing here?"

"Well, my sister here," McCoy says, pondering why Kirk is calling him Bones now of all times, "is a friend of a local politician. Isn't that right?” He doesn't even know her name, but it hardly matters - she flashes Kirk a winning smile and holds out her hand.

“Christine,” she says as Jim leans down and kisses her stretched out hand. McCoy ignores the spike of petty jealousy that shocks through him at Kirk's flirtatious smirk towards her. That's supposed to be his sister, after all, though something tells him that Jim doesn’t believe the cover for even a second. 

He makes sure to raise an eyebrow at Jim who just smiles, though his eyes are cold, the spark from when he had earlier been talking to his friend or whoever disappeared. But there's also something missing to that smile, a sudden lack of trust - and McCoy had predicted this, but Uhura had wanted to go about it anyway, stating that the only way to get close to the enemy (really, Spock) was to fraternize with them. Make them afraid, too. And by the looks of it, Jim is afraid, even though he might not exactly know why, or if he's being paranoid or not. McCoy has had the sense that Jim was growing more and more aware with each passing day, and though there’s a little entertainment in watching the way Jim’s confidence seems to shatter in his presence, it also makes him feel a little sick and unwanted.

"I'm thirsty,” Christine says, and she stands up in a sweeping gesture. “I’m going to get some wine,” she says, nods at Kirk, but her eyes are sharp.

“You have a sister…?” Jim asks, taking her seat. McCoy forces himself not to cross his ankle over his knee, knowing it’s his nervous tick – what he does when he lies. But he’s been doing a lot of lying recently, and this shouldn’t be so much harder than any of that.

“Yeah, I mean – we don’t see much of each other.” He begins to fabricate a past. “She’s not from around here, and after the divorce, you know, it’s messy work.” He shrugs. “And she’s clearly involved in much fancier things.” He laughs. “She moved out after our – dad died.” _Dad died_ is true at least. Though it was him who had moved out after that death, not some fake sister.

Jim’s eyes are trained on her back, Christine smiling at a man near the hotel bar as she sips from her glass. “She’s beautiful,” he says, and then he turns around and smirks. “Like you.”

McCoy smiles despite himself. It leaves an aching whole in his chest. “Yes, she is,” he agrees, and that part at least, isn’t a lie. “Now it’s my turn.” He turns his head to look at Jim head on and Jim hesitates, blinks. “What are you doing here? A party for rich, local politicians who make too much damn money off of the people they’re supposed to be helping. And their brat kids.”

Jim grins. “I never told you what I do for a living,” he teases, but then withdraws quickly, coming up with a smooth lie. “I’m friends with a guy, he invited me. Jack.” The name is probably even fake. CHristine returns and hands him a glass of red wine. She hadn’t asked what he’d wanted but he doesn’t complain. She doesn’t have anything for Jim, but he doesn’t complain. She stares at him for a moment in her seat and he challenges her with his eyes. McCoy half expects her to pour her drink in his lap, something poisonous in the way she looks at him.

Instead she takes a sip and looks at McCoy. “I’ll be around,” she says, voice cold, but she manages to smile at her fake brother and he smiles back.

“Bad night?” Kirk asks as soon as she’s out of earshot.

McCoy shrugs. “Probably,” he says, and considers making up a story about her, maybe giving her a fiancé she’s having problems with, or a recent miscarriage. None of that seems like a good idea though, with the way Jim is staring at him.

“I just didn’t expect to see you here,” he says when McCoy glances over. “I don’t mean to stare. But you look…very good.”

McCoy rubs at his own face and manages a long, “Uhh,” before Jim speaks up again.

“I know it’s only been a couple of days. I’m sorry things have been – weird.”

“You are?”

“Yeah, I think – I want to make it up to you,” Jim says with a heat in his voice that feels sudden and overwhelming. His eyes are sharp as he looks at McCoy, and it’s too early, McCoy thinks. Too soon. McCoy twitches and stares at him, swallowing as thoughts begin to pound through his head because Jim is one hundred percent coming onto him now, tipping his head to the side and licking his lips but leaving them wet and a little shiny in a way that’s unbelievable, still. 

“We’ve all heard it before. They all say the same things, don’t they?” Jim looks up to the man he had been talking to before – Jack, McCoy presumes, though he doesn’t know if the name is real or not – and another handful of young to middle aged men. Surrounded by girlfriends, wives, friends. Laughing and clinking glasses together. Jim continues, voice harsh and sticky, “Money is a goddamn drug, Bones. It makes us brittle and fragile and it gives certain people too much goddamn power.” Emotion seeps into his voice that McCoy hadn’t expected, and when Jim looks back at him his eyes are crystal clear and near threatening.

“Then why are you here?” McCoy can’t help but ask. He can’t tell if Jim is trying to edge him into spilling his guts, if Jim is really fearful of McCoy being something he isn’t, or if this is just his way of getting laid. It’s unprofessional as all hell, McCoy knows – but if it goes there, he’s not going to resist it. He doesn’t want to.

Jim’s hand grips McCoy’s wrist, the one holding the wine glass, and pulls it down. He scoots his chair closer and sips from McCoy’s glass in his hand, all the while eyes trained on McCoy’s face. The tension is thick and McCoy loses his breath for a moment as he watches the red wine stain Jim’s mouth.

Then, in a whisper, “Come on.” No intent to answer McCoy’s question, just the tug at his sleeve, dragging McCoy to his feet. “Come with me. Please.”

McCoy follows without even questioning a damn thing, and they slip out of the large room without being noticed by anyone except perhaps Christine who seems to notice everything. He wonders if she’ll tell Uhura that Leonard McCoy banged the enemy in a hotel bathroom on the night he was supposed to be gathering intel and laying low, watching Jim’s every movement instead of being absorbed by it. He finds he doesn’t give a shit as Jim pushes open a heavy gold plated door and pulls McCoy inside.

McCoy stumbles but catches himself seconds before Jim wraps his arms around him and kisses him with fervor. Their mouths don’t quite fit together right and that’s okay because all McCoy can think about is how Jim’s hips feel under his hands, how they grind up against his and he nearly loses his balance again before his ass hits a beautiful marble counter. He grabs a hold of the edge, one hand still clinging to Jim as the kissing becomes more like devouring.

Jim’s hands reach for McCoy’s belt buckle, undoing and unzipping without hesitation, and McCoy can’t help the gasp that shocks through him as Jim palms him through his underwear. “Fuck,” he grits out, and that elicits a soft noise from Kirk as well. “What are you gonna do?” he breathes.

“I don’t know,” Kirk says, and it’s maybe the most honest thing he’s said tonight.

This time McCoy initiates the kiss and it’s softer, more languid and slow, meant to draw out Jim’s anger. Jim’s fingers are wrapped around his cock now, pumping him with the same rhythm of the kiss. McCoy almost gets lost in it, managing to get a hand on Jim’s back to pull him somehow closer. Their bodies are a mess and they’ll look like a mess whenever they’re finished with each other, but McCoy can’t find the will to care about any of it. He would gladly go through the rest of the night with come on his underwear, as long as Jim’s mouth stays at his jaw, teeth whispering across smooth skin and short hairs, hot breath and warm tongue.

Their breaths get lost in each other’s mouths, gasps and small moans, but Jim seems content to jack McCoy off right there, and when McCoy does come, Jim only slumps against him, burying his face in his neck and laughing.

McCoy almost feels like he’s part of some sick prank, and considers for a moment, the possibility that Jim is going to shoot off his dick as punishment for using him and run off. It wouldn’t be the most unlikely outcome of all of this.

Instead, Jim just presses a kiss to the corner of McCoy’s mouth and then stands up, straightening his jacket and tie and washing his hands.

McCoy stairs at the stall in front of him and catches his breath. He doesn’t move, afraid to face Kirk, and only manages to gets his pants reorganized. He’s beginning to regret the come on his underwear, though the euphoria and adrenaline for the orgasm say otherwise.

“See you later,” Jim says and walks past him.

McCoy curses as he’s left alone. Regardless of Jim’s intention, he’s ruined any chance McCoy had of getting anything useful back to Uhura. He turns around and faces the mirror and then ducks his head under the sink, turning on the stream of cold water.

-

Jim feels a sick sense of accomplishment when McCoy doesn’t come back into the dining room for another fifteen minutes. Christine even walks up to him and her voice is scalding when she asks, “Where the hell did he go?”

“I don’t know,” Jim lies easily, smirking at her. “He disappeared to the bathroom. Not very supportive of his _sister_ is he?” he asks. Everything is so certain now. She narrows her eyes at him and leaves the dining room in the middle of the dinner. When she comes back she has McCoy dragged behind her, but his head is ducked with embarrassment. Jim can’t help but laugh – the girl is clearly not his sister, and she’s also obviously impatient with him. They sit together on the other side of the room, directly opposite of where Jim’s sitting with Jack and a couple of other people he can’t remember by name.

Instead of thinking about McCoy, he focuses on his task. Which, as Carol had reminded him, isn’t much of anything. Slipping away to jerk off Bones had been easy and hadn’t interfered with what he had to do, and Jack seems unconcerned. After a while of sitting back and listening, his phone recording snippets of speech and conversation, Jim begins to wonder why he’s here at all.

Crises, he finds, are more complicated than he’d like them to be. He gets a headache, probably from the wine, and has to set down his glass and pay attention again. If McCoy is there, he rationalizes in his head, that means that Carol was – right. That means that there is someone out there who not only wants him dead but also wants him fucked with, and that’s more annoying than anything.

He leaves early, says to Jack he has to go, mumbles something about an emergency and gets a strange look. At this point, he doesn’t give a fuck about what he tells Spock, or what Spock knows, or what _anyone_ knows or thinks because it’s getting to be clear that there isn’t a lot of respect for him from anyone.

He doesn’t think McCoy sees him and he slips into the parking lot, stepping into his car. As he grips the steering wheel, he thinks maybe he shouldn’t be driving, but it doesn’t seem like a good idea to try to get a cab and find someone to pick up his damn car. “Fuck it,” he whispers, and he drives too fast on purpose, knows that he’s taking a risk when he runs two red lights. He almost wishes that someone would pull him over because then he could actually fight someone, and god, wouldn’t that be wonderful? A skinny cop who doesn’t expect to have a gun pulled on him when he pulls over a speeder.

Jim shudders, thinking that he’d kill a stranger right now. And he knows that by tomorrow his outlook will have changed, at least slightly, though some things seem permanent. The permanent things are the problem, he decides, pulling into the lot behind the apartment and fumbling at his keys. There’s no one waiting for him at the stairwell and there isn’t any reason for Jim to be suspicious right now but he keeps looking over his shoulder in the dark, looking for an excuse to tear someone apart.

It takes a lot of pacing for him to calm down, and he drops his keys and phone and wallet on the kitchen table before slamming his hands down on the wood. The stinging on his palms reminds him to breathe and he does so before grabbing a glass from the cabinet and getting himself a glass of water. He drinks the whole thing and by the time he’s done drinking and eating a cup of yogurt, one of the doors at the bottom of the steps open. Everything becomes tight in Jim’s body and he waits, half-expecting McCoy to knock on his door.

But – nothing. He hears a door, _the_ door, open and then shut, but that’s all. It’s – anticlimactic. He throws out the empty plastic cup and continues pacing back and forth, worrying his hands together and pulling at the fabric of his jacket until he finally tears it off and throws it on the couch.

“Fuck,” he whispers, and then again, “goddamn motherfucker.”

The anger ebbs away after a hot shower and Jim pulls on boxers and his sweats, the same worn ones he wore almost every night when he was at McCoy’s. As he lies in bed he decides that he isn’t going to hesitate anymore. He didn’t have proof before but _this_ is proof; this is the fact that Leonard McCoy was somewhere that coincidence would never put him, and it doesn’t make sense, and all it does is confirm Jim’s fears that he’s being lied to, that he’s nothing more than a means to an end.

The anger returns, fresh, but it’s not quite the same rage. It’s hurt, Jim realizes, but as he rolls onto his side in the dark and picks up his phone to text Carol a _u were right_ message, it’s with a heavy knot reminding him that he doesn’t have many choices.

Exposing McCoy is his priority. Fuck what Spock wants. Fuck what they expect from him.

And fuck Leonard McCoy.

-

Jim shows up at his door the next day, smile wide. It doesn’t reach his eyes. McCoy stares.

“Hey,” Jim says, voice too light. He bounces a little as he continues, “I was wondering if you wanted to go for coffee.”

“I…” McCoy trails off. “Are you angry with me?”

“What?” Jim says, though the surprise is so clearly feigned that it’s almost more annoying than the faked pleasure. “Why would I be angry at you?”

“You sound like a teenage girl,” McCoy says, shaking his head. “I don’t know what I did, but…”

“Don’t worry about it, Bones.” They stare at each other, Jim’s expression intent.

“Yeah, coffee sounds good, I haven’t had my afternoon cup.”

“You drink too much coffee,” Jim says, and he’s said it before, but McCoy can tell he means it this time. “It’ll kill you, there’s acid in that shit.”

“There’s acid in a lot of things I like,” McCoy says and lets out a sigh. “What’s the weather like?”

“Balmy, a perfect April day.”

“Can’t fuckin’ believe it’s already April.”

“It’s almost May. Come on.”

McCoy follows Jim even though his gut says to stay home. His gut says to fucking leave and give up and die, to give up to everything that’s been digging at him. His gut also says to just finish the goddamn mission and kill this kid but it’s too much.

They go to the same coffee shop, or rather Jim leads him to the same coffee shop and this time McCoy just orders a black coffee and they sit together but the tension there is unbelievable.

Finally, Jim smiles and says, “I do miss you,” and there’s a ruthless honesty in his voice that catches McCoy’s breath. “Bones.”

“Don’t call me that,” McCoy says weakly.

“Why not?” Jim asks.

“Because it doesn’t make any sense.”

“It makes sense to me,” Jim says and shrugs, sipping his latte. “You should let me call you whatever I want to call you.”

“Sure,” McCoy murmurs. “So you miss me?”

“Yes, it’s indescribable.” He shakes his head as if genuinely confused. “I don’t know how I got here and I don’t know how to get away.” He looks McCoy head on again. “I want to stay with you tonight.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“At my place.”

McCoy raises an eyebrow and frowns. “So, were you angry at me?”

“There are a lot of different words for what I am, I guess.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“And it isn’t supposed to.”

Jim is quiet after that and it becomes clear that he isn’t going to say anything else so McCoy gives up asking, determined to wait it out.

But Jim says nothing. They leave when the conversation dies and Jim is the one to enter his apartment first, McCoy trailing behind and wondering how much of a good idea this really is.

Then Jim looks at him over his shoulder, smiles, and he can’t say no. He wouldn’t if he wanted to. 

They end up on the couch together again, Jim with his head in McCoy’s lap. The TV show that McCoy had started on the Netflix account wasn’t entertaining enough to keep either of them enraptured, and Jim falls asleep like that.

Despite everything.

McCoy licks his lips and touches Jim’s forehead, pushing his hair out of the way to get a better look at him. The characters on TV shout and cry in muted voices and McCoy is afraid to move and upset Jim’s peace. He wishes he could maintain that same state of absolute peace, but his own sleep has been restless and he knows, by now, that there’s really only one alternate left.

After two episodes, McCoy pats the side of Jim’s face. When he wakes up he sits up and yawns and kisses McCoy on the mouth, stays there for too long, but McCoy doesn’t pull away.

“Is it time for bed?” Jim asks in a soft voice, reaching up and running his thumb over McCoy’s ear with a smile. “Are you going to take me to bed?”

“It’s your place,” McCoy says, ignoring Jim’s tired flirtation. “But you should go to bed, regardless of if I stay.” His voice cracks just a little at the end and Jim sighs, pressing their noses together and kissing him again.

“I already said I want you to stay,” he murmurs and then presses his lips to both of McCoy’s cheeks in turn. “It’s okay, it’s okay.”

McCoy isn’t sure he knows the meaning of the word anymore but he doesn’t argue, letting Jim take his hand and lead him to the bedroom. Jim stands in the middle of his bedroom and tugs his t-shirt off, then his jeans. He crawls into bed in only his boxers, huddling towards one end.

McCoy stands in the doorway and watches him.

“Just gonna stare?” Jim asks, his voice slurring. “Please come to bed.”

McCoy sighs and pulls his own shirt of while Jim stares. He takes his jeans off, hyperaware of Jim’s watching without guilt.

“Now it’s you who’s staring,” he says quietly and sits on the bed, pulling back the covers. “You’re tired,” he says as Jim wraps an arm around his stomach, hooking his fingers around McCoy’s waist. “We can…talk in the morning.”

“I don’t wanna talk,” Jim says, his breath close to McCoy’s ear. He kisses McCoy’s neck and says, “I just wanna stay here with you,” and then nothing else.

McCoy waits until Jim’s breathing gets deep and quiet, his grip loosening on McCoy’s waist. McCoy rolls over onto his side and stares at Jim’s sleeping face again, and he vaguely questions all of his choices up until now.

“I should have killed you on the second date,” McCoy says under his breath, smiling because there was never really a second date, or a first. He touches his lips to Jim’s forehead – warmth. He runs a hand over Jim’s bare arm and continues, to himself, “I should put you out of your misery. Because every look you give me says you’re miserable.”

He could pick up a pillow and smother Jim and fucking run. And that would be it – the end of this story that he can’t get a grip on. He takes another deep breath and kisses the corner of Jim’s sleeping mouth before rolling over again and closing his eyes.

Jim isn’t in bed when he wakes up and it’s dark in the room, though not pitch – he rolls out of bed and grabs his jeans, checking the clock. It’s eight o’clock. He sighs and pulls the jeans on before heading into the hallway and down to the kitchen where he smells coffee brewing.

“Hey,” he says, and Jim is washing dishes as the coffee bubbles. His chest hurts. He ducks his head when Jim looks up.

“Good morning,” Jim says, voice tight. “Did you sleep well?”

“Did you?” McCoy counters. Jim moves away from the dishes, wiping his hands on a towel before corner McCoy and grabbing a hip, pushing him against the counter. McCoy is about to protest but then Jim kisses him before he has the chance.

He pushes back against his chest. “What are you – ”

“I’m saying good morning,” Jim says, but there’s tightness in his voice and McCoy pulls away. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, Jim, it’s just – it’s early.”

“Really? Would you like some coffee?”

“No, thanks.”

“Don’t sound so curt,” Jim snaps, heading back to the sink and turning the water on again at full blast. “I thought you liked kissing me.”

“I…don’t think we should be doing this.”

“Excuse me?” Jim spins around and glares at him. “Doing _what_ exactly?”

McCoy gives him his most pained look. “You know what I mean, Kirk.”

“Kirk,” Jim says with a snort. “Of fucking course. Now I’m just _Kirk_.”

“The coffee’s ready.”

“Are you just going to avoid the truth until it spills out of one of us like a fucking – ”

“I said, the coffee is ready.”

Jim stops. They stare at each other for a solid fifteen seconds before Jim looks away, grabbing a mug from a cabinet and grabbing the coffee to pour himself a cup.

“Are you going to leave?” Jim says. McCoy looks at his hands, shaking around the mug.

“I don’t know. Do you want me to leave?”

“I think you should.”

“I want to say, I’m sorry.”

“Sorry about what?”

“I’ll try to leave. As soon as possible.”

“Okay.”


	3. Chapter 3

Jim stays at home, drinking coffee and then as the day goes on, beer. He even opens a bottle of white wine had stolen months ago and was saving for a special occasion. Now he’s almost certain that special occasion won’t happen and he cracks open the bottle and pours himself a full glass. He ignores his inhibitions and drinks.

He drinks until the room blurs. He drinks to forget.

-

McCoy starts repacking the movies and books when he’s back in his apartment. It doesn’t feel far away enough. He goes to a bar two blocks from the complex and walks home plastered. Except he can’t think of it as home.

He wants to leave.

-

He sees McCoy smoking outside and heads back into his apartment. He’s not used to crying but he does, and he drinks because it seems like the appropriate reaction to stupid, teenage angst.

Jim gets a vague text from Spock followed by an e-mail and he calls Carol to yell at her for not letting him know that he was fucked, but she hangs up on him because he’s drunk and slurring and there’s snot in his nose and his mouth and she can’t do anything about it anyway.

He texts her an apology while he deals with a hangover the next morning.

-

“You’ve done really great, McCoy.”

“So, can I be done?”

“Almost,” Uhura says, voice chipper. “But it’s too dangerous to keep him around. You have to get rid of him, as soon as possible.”

“Did you find anything out about the pill I sent you? And what about Spock’s number?”

“The numbers were great. You did a great job,” Uhura assures, “as for the pills, we’re still looking into it. We’re doing analysis on the materials and it definitely isn’t something we’ve ever seen before. So far what we’re thinking is that it might be something that’s – never been marketed. I mean, it’s _clearly_ not something that’s sold at your local grocers,” Uhura says, “but we can’t be sure exactly what it does without more testing. And we don’t exactly want to give someone a taste unless they’re expendable, and we don’t really have a lot of expendable folks at the – ”

“I got it. Thanks.”

“The number is good too, we haven’t touched it yet but it looks legitimate. If that’s the number that Spock gives to his agents, then it’ll help us in the long run with really tracking him down.”

“Is that what this is all about?” McCoy can’t stop himself from asking, “Stopping Spock, ending whatever he has – which is basically just the same shit that you do. It’s all – it all seems so petty and I…” He trails off and curses. “Sorry.”

“You know, if you’re having an issue completing the mission, we could always send someone else out to help you.” Her voice is cold and dangerous and McCoy takes a shaky breath. “If Jim Kirk has any semblance of an idea that _you_ are the enemy, which I’m sure he does at this point, he could call that damn number at any time and have you killed.”

“He hasn’t done that.”

“What makes you so sure?”

McCoy’s first answer is _because he wouldn’t do that to me_ but even that rings false in his head. He says, “I’m still talking to you, aren’t I?”

She laughs, but it’s without humor. “I would hate to see you dead, Agent McCoy. You do valuable work and you’ve made yourself important to the way our system upholds itself. Maybe this Kirk has his claws in you, and maybe you have your claws in him to an extent as well, but be warned – there isn’t anything safe about your job, or his. And if my understanding is correct, then Agent Kirk has every means to kill you. I warned you about this but you seem to have lost track of what your actual job is, and that worries me more than anything else.”

“It worries me, too.”

“So you’ll get the job done?”

He hangs up.

-

He knocks on McCoy’s door on midnight, some day of the week, uncertainty and anxiety coursing through him at every corner. The anger has dissipated, replaced instead by fear and a barely conscious need to find ruthlessness in someone else’s body.

Bones stares at him, licks his lips and looks down before saying, “What are you doing here?” and neither of them knows the real answer to that question.

“I think you hacked into my phone and I think you’ve been using me and that you might kill me someday so I’m just saying it now.”

McCoy stares, eyes wide, but he doesn’t say anything – maybe his words are trapped.

“I know I’m not insane and I know you shouldn’t have been at that party or moved next door. And I know I’m being used and I know that I’m terrified but I also know that there’s nothing I want more right now than – ”

“Than what?” McCoy says, cutting him off. His voice is low but sharp, and he glances down the hallway. “Jesus Christ, at least come inside before you start spouting out your love confessions.”

Jim glares and pushes himself into McCoy’s apartment, shutting the door behind him, “It’s not a love confession, it’s an honesty confession.”

McCoy turns around, back to Jim, and paces into the kitchen – Jim follows.

“I have a friend, Carol, and she told me – she told me that I was being used. By Spock. Who I’m sure you know of by now.”

McCoy purses his lips when he looks at Jim. “Would you believe me if I said I didn’t?”

“Not at all.” McCoy says. “Everything in your posture, your face, says I’ve finally caught up in the lie.”

“Only some of it was a lie,” McCoy says softly.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means – it means, I don’t know what’s true and what’s false anymore. Fine. You got me. Are you proud of yourself? You figured out the master plan, but what are you going to do about it? You’re out of options now. You could run away, go rogue and disappear off the map. I’m sure you have the money and the means to find yourself a life outside of what you’ve been doing. But instead, you’re here. Telling me your _truth_. Do you expect truth in return?”

“Please, Bones, I don’t want this to end.”

McCoy slams his hand on the table and turns, glaring at Jim now with fire in his eyes. “There’s nothing here for you, or me. It was a sham. I fucked you because it was my goddamn job. I don’t want anything to do with you and you don’t want anything to do with me. The other night, I was certain I was going to kill you – you were out cold and I could have smothered you in your sleep and walked away and no one would have thought anything of it. Cleaned my fingerprints off your door knobs and fucking _left_ , and that would be it. That would be the end.”

“You didn’t kill me,” Jim protests, “and you could have, but you didn’t. You could kill me right now but you’re not and – ”

“And neither are you.”

They both fall silent and Jim takes in ragged breaths. “You could have killed me,” he whispers, “and you didn’t, and that’s more important than anything else.”

“No, no Jim. It isn’t. What’s more important than not being killed is being loved.”

There’s a beat of silence before Jim steps forward, grabs the front of McCoy’s shirt, and pulls him forward. They crash together in a kiss that doesn’t exactly break the tension, just changes it. McCoy kisses with the same kind of fever as Jim, hands sliding to Jim’s hips, tugging him close. Jim pushes his tongue into McCoy’s mouth, squeezing his eyes shut as fingers dig into the back of his jacket. 

McCoy marches him against the wall and Jim goes willingly like a toy, back slamming into the wall, knocking the air out of him. He breathes out “Bones,” and half expects McCoy to push him harder or let go. Instead, Bones meets him halfway again in a messy kiss that musters most of the oxygen that Jim had been using to continue functioning halfway decently.

They grapple for each other, Bones with a knee between Jim’s thighs, grinding against him. If the situation were different it wouldn’t be quite so terrifying. Jim’s breath hitches as Bones grabs him by the thighs and picks him up, pushing him against the wall in another crashing movement that reverberates in the room. Jim clambers, wrapping his arms around McCoy’s neck to stay steady, and the kissing continues, hot, wet, and chilling to the core.

“C’mon,” Jim whispers, his breath sticky against McCoy’s face. McCoy gives him a hollow smirk and slides his hands down Jim’s legs, letting him drop comfortably back to the floor. He grabs Jim’s wrist and guides him, his grip firm but not unkind, and Jim follows him into the bedroom. McCoy shoves him by the chest onto the bed and Jim doesn’t put up resistance, falling back and beginning to feel elated. It’s different from the way sex was treated before, although it isn’t that McCoy never let him roughhouse with Jim – he just never went so far as to take it seriously, even when Jim tried to tease him into taking it further. Now, McCoy is without restraints and without a cover, changed in Jim’s eyes to someone who is now, more than ever, completely open.

Jim gasps as McCoy nips down his neck, little hard bites that may or may not leave tiny but visible bruises that will last long enough for Jim to admire them in the mirror in the morning. McCoy is pulling off Jim’s shirt, then tugging at his jeans until they’re on the floor and he’s naked, McCoy fully dressed.

McCoy rolls him over and Jim lays still as rough, calloused fingers rubbing along Jim’s shoulders and back. He loosens under McCoy’s touch, letting out a sigh as Bones kneads into his skin. Some of the pressings are harder, almost rough, and maybe they’ll leave bruises too. 

Jim says, “Fuck me,” and he means it, absolutely, one-hundred percent. There isn’t any hesitation. There can’t be any reservations - he knows, feeling McCoy’s hands continue to run over the expanse of his back. He turns his head and strains his neck to see McCoy looking at him – really looking at him – for a beat that feels like forever. McCoy is still settled on top of him, on top of his hips, and sweat beads along Jim’s hairline as they watch each other. Every breath feels like a struggle and he says, “Please,” hoping it’ll be enough to coax McCoy to move his weight off of his ass and position somewhere a little more helpful.

McCoy picks himself up suddenly, grabs a condom and the pump bottle of lube from the bedside table. Jim closes his eyes and tries to catch his breath McCoy preps himself – he hears the condom wrapper ripped open with care, the sound of lube and then the wet and warm feeling of lubed fingers at his hole. He twitches, spreading his legs to invite McCoy further. He has to wonder why McCoy is bothering, thought he’d fuck hard and rough and without mercy, and Jim would’ve happily accepted it.

But instead he’s being fingered, and maybe this is just another way of McCoy being merciless.

Jim moans, “Bones, please,” because it’s all he can muster as McCoy shifts forward and jacks his cock in slow strokes, two fingers scissoring inside of him. Jim sees brightness on his eyelid, blinding brightness and he feels almost light headed, the heat of orgasm building in groin and the pit of his stomach. It’s inevitable, like everything seems to be when it comes to McCoy. “Please, just…fuck me.”

McCoy removes his hand from Jim’s cock and touches his back instead, fucking his fingers in and out of Jim, more relentless now. It’s too much – too slow, too strong. McCoy holds Jim at the base of the neck and slides his fingers out and Jim moans, helpless. He knows he shouldn’t love every minute of it but he wants it. More than anything. And McCoy is taking too much goddamn time, won’t just fuck him like he’s close to begging for, won’t hurt him - and Jim shudders at how much he wishes McCoy would hurt him.

“Please,” he says again in a hoarse whisper. There’s a beat of silence and Jim holds his breath. It comes out harsh and loud as McCoy presses the head of his cock into Jim. Everything is properly lubed but the stretch and slow burn keep Jim biting down on his pillowcase, clinging to his sheets. He nearly cries out as McCoy bottoms out, a hand still on the back of his neck, keeping him in place.

“Jim,” McCoy breathes, leaning over Jim’s body, buried deep inside of him.

“Bones,” Jim breathes back, the only logical response that comes to mind. He lets go of the pillowcase between his teeth and takes a few shallow breaths. All he can feel is McCoy’s cock and McCoy’s hand pressing his face down against the pillow with firm pressure.

“Don’t pass out on me,” McCoy whispers, breath ghosting over Jim’s ear before he kisses the back of his neck. “Breathe. Deeply.”

“Yeah,” Jim says and does as he’s told. He feels better after the fact, more comfortable. Everything about it feels right, up to McCoy’s cock sliding out of him again, following by rocking back inside. Jim quivers and McCoy fucks him until his senses have gone, the blindness has overcome, and all he can feel is hot friction and the pull of McCoy’s fingers in his hair. He barely notices when McCoy wraps his hand around Jim’s cock again, thumbs over the slit and strokes him harder and faster, in time with the roll of his hips.

Jim comes with a curse in his mouth, and McCoy joins with a deep groan. They sink against each other and Jim falls asleep in his own come before McCoy comes back from the bathroom.

-

McCoy rolls Jim over as he sleeps and cleans off his stomach with a warm washcloth, dabbing at the sheets beneath him – it doesn’t do much but at least Jim won’t wake up with come stuck to his stomach from his own bed.

McCoy stares at Jim’s sleeping figure for a few moments and thinks maybe he should feel creepy for watching him sleep but he doesn’t. He only feels serene, and maybe a little lonely.

“I should go,” he whispers, leaning over Jim to kiss his temple. “I’m sorry.”

Jim stirs in his sleep and McCoy stands up. He grabs the jeans he had discarded earlier and tugs them back on, his shirt and jacket too. He shoots Jim one last look before he leaves the room, then the apartment, and heads to his own. He packs a bag, mostly just clothes and a few things from his cupboard, and then takes the apartment key off of his key ring and sets it on the kitchen counter. 

It’s pitch dark when he heads outside and starts to drive.

-

Jim wakes up and every moment leads to more sinking in his stomach. He trails around the apartment in clean underwear but McCoy is nowhere to be found. He puts on jeans and heads next door but when he knocks there’s no answer. He jiggles the doorknob and it opens. Jim steps into the apartment and looks around, starts to check every room but they’re empty too. There’s no coffee in the pot, no warmth in McCoy’s bed. There’s only emptiness, and Jim sits down on the couch he has fond memories of and looks at the DVDs awkwardly stacked by the TV.

He puts his head in his hands.

He gets his phone from his apartment, his cell phone, and calls McCoy’s number. A voice says that the number he has dialed cannot be reach, and to check it again. He does, but it’s the same number and he doesn’t have any other way of contacting McCoy.

He gets dressed completely and heads down the stairs, pulling out his pack of cigarettes from his jacket as he steps into the cool, spring air. It’s still early, only seven o’clock, and he scans the streets, hoping McCoy will be there, hoping that someone will be there.

But there’s no one, as usual.

His heart beats, but it’s a hollow thing.

-

“I can’t complete the mission,” McCoy says sharply, “and you should send someone else to do it.”

“Oh, are you sure?” Uhura sounds concerned. “McCoy, there’s no one else who can complete the job like you can.”

“I said I can’t do it,” he says, and he hates how raw his own voice sounds. He’s driving, on the freeway in the middle of nowhere, now eight hours out of New York.

“You realize we have a tracker on your car,” Uhura says softly, but it’s a warning underneath. “You’re not going to get very far.”

“I’m not running from you,” he whispers, voice hoarse and cracking. He tries to clear his throat and a sob runs up his chest, making everything vibrate. “Shit. I’m running from him.”

“You know what I always say…” Uhura says. “You’re not planning on ditching the vehicle?”

“Look, Uhura, I don’t trust anyone anymore, and I don’t even trust myself, but I know that I can’t run from you, and I definitely can’t – I can’t run from myself. Did you find out about those pills?”

“Always so quick to change the topic,” Uhura says and he sighs. “They’re hyper immunity tablets, designed to give the taker the utmost in, well, immunity, as I’m sure you can imagine. As far as we can tell, there’s nothing chemically dangerous about them – they aren’t a weapon. It’s more likely that Spock initiated the creation of these as a way to arm his own agents, though by the sounds of it, they’re more like soldiers.” She huffs as if annoyed. “Can you believe it? It’s like he’s focused on a super race.”

“Yeah, what an asshole,” McCoy says sarcastically. “He must be having a real power trip, huh?”

“Oh, hush,” Uhura says. “Look. I trust you. You’re one of my best agents, probably one of the best I’ll ever have, so I’d prefer not to have to worry about cancelling you because I’d like you to stay by my side. And you should remember that I’m not going to forget.”

McCoy stiffens. It’s seven in the morning on a Sunday and the freeways are quiet and mostly empty. He steps on the gas and the acceleration gives him a thrill for a bare thread of a moment. “I haven’t forgotten, Uhura,” he assures her.

“Call me when you’re ready to come home.”

Home. He hears the phone click and the dial tone rings in his ear – he drops it on the seat next to him, chest seizing at the thought of Jim being in that seat, laughing at him or even just smiling.

He can’t run, but he sure as hell can try.

-

Jim shoots a man point blank who attempts to ambush him in his apartment.

It’s the first kill in months and he thanks god for silencers and idiots who attack him in his own goddamn home. It’s been two days since McCoy disappeared and everything feels shattered, but he drags the corpse into his kitchen and calls Spock who says he’ll send someone to eliminate the evidence.

Jim hides, locked in his bedroom, when an agent shows up and disposes of the corpse like a ragdoll.

McCoy couldn’t kill him, so he had someone else sent to do it. He has to leave, now or never, and there’s very little he can do now that they know where he is, and he has no idea of the same. Spock wants him dead too, that much is obvious. Jim is surprised that the agent sent to dispose of the body doesn’t attack him, at any rate.

-

“He killed the agent.”

McCoy takes a moment to deal with the mixture of elation and terror that rips through him. “What?” he finally says, trying his best to sound shocked.

“I don’t know what to do,” Uhura admits. McCoy gets up and starts to pace the hotel room he’s been staying at for the last day or two in North Carolina. “I’m pretty sure he’s ran, and it’s not like we have a tracker on him,” she says and he can almost hear the eye roll in her voice. “Do you still have his phone number? If you give it to me, I can use that to track him – as long as he still has his phone.”

“No,” McCoy says. “I’ll deal with it.”

“Excuse me?” Uhura says, sounding intrigued. “I thought you gave up on this mission?”

“I did. But I have a lot of respect for him, and I think at this point, the only person who can kill him is me.”

“Is that so? That sounds a little tacky to me,” Uhura says with a slight laugh. “But, you know, if you really think you can pull it off…” She trails off and hums. “I’ll allow it. But if you’re not done in 48 hours, we will send someone. Or someones. And it won’t be to eliminate Agent Kirk – it will be someone to eliminate you.”

McCoy shivers and thinks for a split second that he could still ditch his car and get a fake ID and passport and travel to Europe and run forever. He clenches his fist at his side and then nods to himself. “No, you don’t have to worry. I’ll do it. And I’ll let you know when it’s over, okay?”

“Alright. You have two days, starting from now,” she says, and there’s an underlying warning in her voice. “If you fail, there are no second chances. I’m trusting you, Agent McCoy, and you know that I don’t trust people easily.”

“I understand.” He hangs up, and then scrolls for another number.

-

“Bones?” he whispers.

“Where are you?”

“Where are _you_?” Jim manages in a half-shout. “I’m as far the fuck away from New York fucking City as I can manage! You tried to have me killed, you fuck face!”

“I didn’t,” McCoy says, but his voice is quiet, “I didn’t – I couldn’t do it. I have to meet with you. Jim.”

“Don’t fucking call me that. Why the fuck would I meet with you? You’re fucking poison, Bones. You would watch me die at someone else’s hands and leave me alone after fucking me like that – you’re a fucking terrible person and I never want to see you ever again.”

“I’ll be in the parking garage of an abandoned building Atlanta, Georgia. I’ll send you the address via text. Are you being followed, do you know?”

“Hell no, I’m getting the fuck out of here. You know, I’m not fucking stupid – Spock’s underestimating me if he thinks I couldn’t get the tracker out of my phones and the one out of my car. They need to invest in some shit that goes in the body, you know, some kind of chip to stick in my throat or my dick so I’d have to get some professional surgeon to cut me up, hey Bones, think you could do that for me? If I ever get stuck in that situation?”

“I’m not a surgeon, Kirk.”

Jim laughs. “Nah, but you’d do it anyway, wouldn’t you.”

“Are you listening to me?” McCoy says, and his voice is tired. “If you show up then we can end this. However it ends. And I can go back to Uhura and you can…”

“Is that how you think it’ll end? You think we’re going to hug it out and then return to our respective sides of the war and keep working for these assholes? These assholes who keep us trapped and ask us to fall in love and then they want us to kill the other person like it’s so easy. And I was trained for this, Bones, I really was. They told me not to care, that my father didn’t really care about my mother but I – I know that’s not true. Shit. I’d like to see my mom again. Are you still there?”

“Yeah, I’m here. You’ll see your mom again, Jim. Okay? I promise.”

“You can’t make any promises anymore, Bones. You don’t get to, because I don’t believe you. And I know that I’m a piece of shit and a hypocrite and that I lied to you too, never told you the truth, but if I wanted anything it was to keep you safe because I thought – I thought for a minute you were innocent. I thought you wouldn’t ever dare to fucking hurt me because I’m a naïve little shit stuck in his own head.”

“Some of those things are true,” McCoy says softly. “Where are you?”

“I’m driving,” Jim says. He looks out over the horizon. “Fuck knows where anymore,” he admits. “A freeway.” He sniffs. “I’m really tired, Bones. I killed the guy who came to kill me. I hope he wasn’t one of your friends.”

McCoy’s stomach drops at that. “I’m sure he wasn’t. I’m…sorry.”

“Would have rather you’d been the one holding a gun to my head. The guy was stupid, anyway. Attacking me in my own home. I’ve been keepin’ my gun on me. All I had to do was aim and shoot. He barely saw it comin’, probably doesn’t know much, huh?” He can feel his voice shattering and he swallows. “Shit, Bones.”

“Jim,” McCoy says, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. We’ll settle this. And it’ll be over. Maybe you’ll kill me, maybe I’ll kill you, maybe we’ll really both get away. I mean, I don’t believe it, but who knows. I can’t say I don’t have some hope that we could both…get away. And be safe, for once. I want to remember what it’s like to sit across from someone without being afraid of them.”

“I’ll text you to the address,” McCoy says again and Jim closes his eyes are a second before he hangs up.

He starts to cry, muffled sobs that shake his entire body enough that he has to pull off the freeway before his phone buzzes on the side. He’s shaking, sitting in a gas station parking lot, not sure where he is when he checks his phone. There’s snot and tears mixed on his chin and under his nose and he wipes it away with the sleeve of his jacket before grabbing a napkin from the glove box to wipe his face with. His hands shake as he plugs the address into his phone’s GPS and checks the arrival time. From where he is it’ll take five hours and that’s because he had pulled further into the Midwest instead of the south. He wonders if he should even bother trying to go to California, to find his mother again, who probably thinks he’s dead.

As he wraps his fingers around the steering wheel, he listens to the voice of his phone tell him where to turn and how far to drive. Even if it won’t be worth it, he has to try. There’s no other choice.

-

McCoy leans against his car and waits.

It’s almost eight o’clock when another car pulls into the abandoned garage. When Kirk steps out, he’s surprisingly well dressed, though it also looks like he hasn’t changed his clothes in a couple of days. His hair is mussed and his eyes are hollow, dark rings around them. His scruff is growing out and he looks older than usual, the exhaustion bringing out the lines in his face.

McCoy can clearly see the gun at his side. He’s not hiding it, which is one thing at least.

“Hey, Bones,” Jim calls, voice hoarse. “How are you?”

“I’m not too bad,” he lies, and rests his hand on his side to touch his own gun. He doesn’t have a sense that Jim is going to grab him and attack, but the tension is still thick. “Do you think we can…” He steps forward and suddenly Jim is heading towards him, and there’s anger in his eyes.

He punches McCoy in the jaw and there’s a moment where McCoy loses his balance and stumbles backwards, hitting the door of his car with a thud. He pauses, holding himself up on the side mirror, and lifts his hand to gingerly touch the side of his face. When he coughs, blood blooms onto his palm – he spits on the floor. Seconds later, Jim is back on top of him, grabbing at his jacket and connecting his fist to his jaw again. McCoy feels his own blood splatter and coughs again as he reaches blindly for Jim’s suit jacket, trying to find something to hold onto. 

“Fuck you,” Jim growls, slamming McCoy against the car door. “You used me,” he yells, his fist finding the other side of McCoy’s face and sending him reeling again. “And you left me to die. You,” – another punch – “fucking” – a fist slamming into his chest, McCoy staggering and his back bruising against the car – “piece of shit” – fingers digging into his jacket and pulling him down – “asshole.”

The garage goes quiet except for heavy breathing and McCoy manages to open his eyes and spit more blood from his mouth. Jim is shaking in front of him and when their eyes meet, he’s crying, tears sliding down his cheeks in streams. McCoy wants to kiss him but all he can feel is throbbing pain and blood dribbling down his chin.

“You fucking asshole,” Jim whispers and McCoy pushes back against Jim’s chest, pulling an arm back and landing a hit on Kirk’s face, though it’s definitely with less power than Jim’s punches had.

Jim stumbles backward, letting go of McCoy’s shirt, and McCoy suspects part of it is shock as well as pain. When he looks up he has blood on his mouth too, and a bruise is already blooming along his perfect fucking jawline.

They both go at each other and they’re shoving and punching and dodging but it’s lethargic in a way, not quite a real fight. They land hits on each other which will bruise but they don’t quite catch each other in really dangerous places, and neither of them has gotten the nerve to unlatch their weapon.

There’s blood between them, already drying on Jim’s suit and tie, plastered over McCoy’s face and dripping onto the floor. Bones clenches a fist in Kirk’s suit as they both stop for a moment, breathing heavily. Jim whispers, “I don’t think you know a goddamn thing,” and McCoy can smell the blood dripping from his nose and his split lip. There’s something sickening and sweet about watching someone fall apart at his own hands, hands that are still so accustomed to healing. 

“Are you gonna kill me?” One of Jim’s hands reaches up, holds the back of Bones’ neck as if to pull him closer. Bones staggers – Kirk is fairly heavy – and his knees hit the garage concrete as they both go down.

“I should,” he hisses angrily, tugging Jim closer. Kirk’s fingers grasp at his hair and he lets out a pleased huff of air. “Don’t be so fucking cocky, you think I won’t do it – that I won’t hurt you – ”

Jim lets out a wrecked laugh. “What are you so angry for? Because you failed? Because I tricked you while you stabbed me in the back?” Kirk turns his head and coughs – blood spews and narrowly misses the cuffs of McCoy’s shirt, splattering on the floor. “You don’t know me, Leonard.” Bones stutters forward again, yanking Jim in again, his other hand reaching behind his back almost awkwardly to keep Kirk from collapsing. “You hardly know yourself.”

“Shut up,” Bones whispers, prepared to punch Kirk one last time – if only to knock him out and make him shut up. This isn’t what he had planned; a battle of fierce anger and betrayal. He had meant to talk to Jim, to promise him reprieve, but it doesn’t look like that’s an option anymore. He grits out, “You think because you slept with me a few times you can psychoanalyze me? You’re better off dead. Spock’s not going to want you back. You disappeared. You took out the trackers, they’ll kill you. And if they don’t, Uhura sure as fuck will. Your life’s over.” His knuckles have gone uncomfortably white, and Kirk’s breath is coming heavier, ragged. “Fuck you.”

Kirk sniffs. “You still want me though. Maybe they won’t, maybe they’ll fuckin’ kill me, but I’ll always have you, huh? Wrapped around my finger. Because you couldn’t help yourself, you couldn’t fucking just – kill me in my sleep, get it over with, you had to make me think it would work out.”

McCoy drops him. Kirk hits the ground clumsily, his elbow catching on the concrete. He curses under his breath and turns his head up to look at Bones.

“What are you gonna do?” His voice is a hoarse, stretched thing. “You gonna kill me, Bones? Really?”

McCoy unhooks his gun as he stands up. Jim is shaking, his hands pressed in the concrete, barely holding himself up. McCoy steps on his chest and Jim buckles underneath the firm pressure, head hitting the concrete until he’s laid flat. McCoy can imagine Kirk’s bones cracking under him, can imagine what it would be like to watch Jim plead for his goddamn life, beg Bones to let him go.

It doesn’t happen. Kirk stares up at him through glossy eyes instead, coughs a couple more times and smirks.

“Bam.”

He’s waiting. He’s waiting for Bones to pull the trigger. It shouldn’t be this goddamn hard.

Yet, here lies James T. Kirk, a kid barely twenty-six with nothing left to live for.

“You’d let me kill you.” McCoy keeps his gun cocked. His hand is unwavering.

“You just told me my life is pointless, Doc.” Bones growls, almost snaps _don’t call me that_ but it’s pointless. “They’re gonna kill me anyway, they’re gonna find me someday. I learned my lesson. They’re probably on their way. If I try to go back, you know – Spock’s not exactly the forgiving type. I broke his rules. I made a mistake. I’m out of options.”

McCoy snorts but it rings hollow. “Right you are. You’ll die if you go back.” He presses his heel into Kirk’s chest, watches him twitch under him, still gasping as he tries to fill his lungs, tries to live. He keeps the hand holding the gun steady and steps back, giving Kirk free reign to move. “So you better run, kid.”

Kirk doesn’t move. Blood dribbles down his chin and to his neck. His eyes are glossed over, hazy. “…What?”

“Get up. Get in your car. Drive out of here. Get out of the country. Get away. I’ll tell them you’re dead. That I disposed of your body. It’ll be believable. Uhura just wants to brag, and if you really were being used – Spock won’t care to find out what happened to you, anyway. It’s their battle, and you don’t have to be a part of it anymore.”

Kirk sits up. His eyes are gaining composure and he grasps his arm, cursing again. “Bones…”

“Don’t fuckin’ call me that.”

Jim grins. “Leonard?”

“Shut. Up.”

“I can’t just…go.”

“You can, and you will. I’m threatening you with a gun to do so.”

“Can’t argue there,” Jim says, and McCoy’s grip on the gun tightens at his dry humor. How he tries to be funny in these situations, McCoy will never understand. Kirk always had the snark pinned down, never lost the edge of his voice.

“It’s going to rain soon. Find a hotel near by. Don’t go to the hospital. You should be fine, if you clean up your cuts. I didn’t hit you hard enough to break any limbs, and your ribs should be fine. Bruised, maybe. But I wasn’t trying to do significant damage.”

“Why not?”

McCoy doesn’t answer, cursing himself for the slip of the tongue. “Sleep. I’ll take care of the rest.”

“Hey, Bones?”

“I said not to call me that.”

“McCoy just still seems so impersonal.” McCoy rolls his eyes.

“Don’t call me anything. Why would you need to use my name?”

Jim is smiling, though still sat on the concrete with McCoy’s gun at his head. “Why would you need to save my life? Come with me. Come with me, Bones. We can both die…fall off the face of the earth. Get government protection – I – it’s not like we were in a mob, you know? They would have killed us. They would have killed me…they would have killed you for not killing me. It’ll work. We can do it. Just come with me. Don’t spend the rest of your life trapped in a cycle that’s never going to end. All you’re gonna see is blood, Bones. And I know you don’t like blood.”

Bones makes direct eye contact, doesn’t waver at all. He’s certain of what he says. “You’re still a kid, Jim.” He wavers. “I got myself into this mess. This is my problem, and it’s not going to be wiped away – and we can’t both be saved.”

“So you’re choosing me?”

“I’m choosing you. This time.”

Kirk grits his teeth. He looks as though he’s about to yell but he doesn’t, keeping his calm. “Well, don’t die too soon then, ya hear me? I wanna meet you again when you retire. Maybe that’ll be in five years, ten, who fucking knows – you’re gonna get old but I still wanna see you. We can bring back some memories, you can fuck me again.” McCoy drops his gaze though his weapon stays steady. “Goddammit, Bones, look at me,” Jim shouts, voice shaking and echoing in the garage.

“You say it like it makes a difference.”

“Like you loved me, yeah, that’s how I say it.”

“You were wrong. You miscalculated.”

Jim pulls himself to his feet and stumbles back awkwardly, towards his car. He coughs again, ends up with blood on his hands. He doesn’t say anything else, staring at Bones as he hobbles backwards. He reaches the car and steps his, hands smearing blood along the handle. The windows are tinted too dark for McCoy to see Jim reach for his keys and start the vehicle. He drops his gun and clips it back at his side as the engine sputters to life, but doesn’t move. Maybe Jim is taking care of his wounds, wiping his face so he at least looks a little bit more normal when he goes to a hotel. That would be good.

Isn’t letting him go enough?

-

No matter what Jim does, he shakes. He wishes he had stashed some of those pills Spock gave them, if only for the slight boost they give, but he still knows that it would only make things worse and end in disaster. As he drives he wonders if Spock already knows, and then he twitches.

Maybe Carol knows, and that’s worse than anything. He considers texting her for half a second before shaking his head – he doesn’t want to put her in more danger than she probably already is. Which isn’t to say that should stay where she is, but Jim doesn’t think he has much of a choice at the moment.

The sorrow that finds him digs into his heart, leaving a hole. He drives, nonstop except for sleeping on the side of the road every night, for days. Otherwise, he keeps moving. He pulls off freeways for gas and to take side roads to get to where he isn’t sure he’s going. He eats stale chips out of a bag he gets at the supermarket and drinks warm bottled water that sits in the front seat. 

He uses his ‘emergency card’, a card he only uses for purchases that he knows won’t be authorized by Spock, and he’s relieved to have it when he hits empty in his car the first time. The money in there isn’t endless, but it will take him to California – which is where he realizes he’s going.

He searches her name on a computer in a public library, ignoring the stares of patrons who are wondering just how homeless he is, considering the suit. But he’s dirty and still covered in dried blood because there isn’t really anywhere to shower and the stains stay no matter how much water he washes himself with in dirty bathrooms. He hasn’t had proper sleep in days, either. When a librarian approaches him and asks him to leave, or she’s going to call the police, he just nods and goes. He knows all he needs to know.

Winona Kirk lives in the same house where Jim grew up. It’s only been five or six years since he last saw her – he can’t remember the exact date, or the exact moment, can’t remember if they hugged or even said goodbye, maybe they just spoke on the phone. But he finds her, and he looks at himself in the rearview mirror in his car and says it’s now or never.

He changes into a clean t-shirt for this and tries to pretend like the swelling in his jaw isn’t too noticeable. McCoy really packs a punch.

Winona opens the door but all she does is stare for a long moment.

“Hey Mom,” Jim manages, and he half-expects her to slap him but – instead she pulls him into a hug and starts to cry.

As he clings to her, he cries as well.

-

“You should come in, we’ll give you a metal for your bravery,” Uhura teases over the phone. “But really – aren’t you going to come home and earn your congratulations? I know this wasn’t an easy mission for you.” The way she says home rings as scalding, itching in McCoy’s head like it’s a testament to who he is, and who Uhura believes he is.

“Look, Uhura, I don’t know what your real motive is, or your business, and I barely know my own but I don’t know if I can do this anymore.” He switches ears but it’s not any more comfortable.

“Are you trying to resign?” Uhura asks.

“I don’t know. Is that possible?” His voice is weak and he sighs, already predicting the answer.

“Not with your track record, Agent McCoy. And you’re just too good to let go. Plus, you owe me.”

He wants to snap at her, wants to find her and kill her and then kill himself – actually, the thought is vaguely pleasant, suicide. At least then he wouldn’t be tortured and forced to admit that Jim Kirk is actually still alive. He wonders, for a brief moment, if there really is any form of torture that could get him to admit that. He’d believe to believe there isn’t, not yet.

“So what are you going to do?” he asks instead. “Are you going to kill this Spock? Take over his company, move in like a fox and destroy everything he’s got out of some petty argument you two had as teenagers?”

Uhura clicks her tongue impatiently. “You think you know me, Leo, and I can assure you that you do _not_. Don’t mess in affairs that don’t concern you.”

“Yeah, well, they’re the only affairs that matter to me.”

Uhura sighs. “Where are you?”

“Drinking a martini on the beach in Florida. Where are you?”

“I’m in my office,” she says. “And somehow I doubt that’s where you are.”

“Yeah, well, don’t exactly want to admit where I actually am.” A motel room with a stench like death and sex; not exactly McCoy’s best layaway option, but at least it makes him feel like less of a terrible person, knowing the kind of sins that have happened on the very bed he’s sitting on. He’s still got a clear record, at least in terms of killing people. Well. Legally, at least.

“Spend our money wisely,” Uhura says, “And do come home, when you have the chance. You know how to reach me.”

“Do you trust me, Nyota?”

“Leonard?”

“I said, do you trust me?”

“I heard you. I just find the lack of formality a little surprising, considering how uptight you usually are.”

He swallows. “Can you just answer the question?”

“I don’t know, Agent McCoy. Do I trust you? I’m letting you live, aren’t I? Either I have some scary ulterior motive for you when you do come home, or I just happen to believe in your own well-being. Look, we all know what’s best for us. We all know what’s best for the people we love. But you don’t have anyone you love, do you?”

McCoy takes a deep breath and drops his shoulders. He’s sat on a bed he’s not quite comfortable touching, but his available hand is still clenched in the top blanket. He forces himself to let go and relax. “Not anymore.”

“Oh, that hurts,” Uhura says but she laughs again, the kind of dark laugh he only hears from her time to time, when something goes exactly the way she wanted it to go. “Look. He was an enemy and you know it. You went in there planning on killing him, didn’t you? Or at least infiltrating his space, lying to him, and wrecking his life. The fact that he’s dead is just suggestive of the work you do, McCoy. You’re not a normal human being living a normal human life, you know that, right? Your mistakes lead you here. You _chose_ this path.”

“I didn’t – I didn’t choose…” The words are sticky in his throat and he rests his head in his palm. “You…”

“Your actions took you to this place. I helped keep you alive and safe and everything else is on you. You can’t blame me for your past. You can’t blame me for your wife leaving you, you can’t blame me for Jim Kirk, you can’t blame me for your father or your mother or your own loneliness. You’re an adult, Agent McCoy, and you make you decisions with you _own_ autonomy. And I will only take responsibility for you when you do good. Understand that.”

“Fine. Good night, Uhura.”

“Good night, Leonard McCoy.”

-

He’s careful not to stay long enough to put his mother in danger. It’s hard for him to fathom, at least, that she knows exactly what happened to him. She cries openly, face in her hands, and he doesn’t know how to comfort her like he used to. Winona Kirk is a shell in some way, but she still smiles at him and strokes his face.

“Please, if only that, just…shower. And sleep here for a night. Just one night.” Her eyes have that kind of brokenness to them that comes from being far away from people you love for years at a time. No one else lives in the house, Kirk can tell from the empty guest bedroom and the lone laptop on the desk in the office.

“That’s all I can promise you,” he says, and she responds with “I’m so sorry,” which doesn’t feel like something she should say. He nods anyway and he looks into his old room from when he was in college, but there’s only dust on the shelves and an unmade bed in the corner. There are boxes, full of clothes on the floor, and he picks out an old t-shirt, a pair of jeans, and even finds some underwear which look remotely clean, at least in comparison to the rest of his clothes.

He opts to take a bath instead, and it soothes his sore muscles and his bruised ribs. He’s surprised that she hadn’t asked where he got the purple jaw but maybe his mother had come to her own conclusions. 

He feels vulnerable, naked in the bathtub, even though his gun is lying on his towel right outside of the tub. He trusts his mother based on instincts, and he hates himself for suspecting that anything could go wrong. But if someone knows where to look – and Spock would know where to look – then anything could happen.

But nothing happens, and Jim enjoys the little peace he finds in a hot bath and then a night in a bed that hasn’t been touched in years. He sleeps better in that bed than he has in ages, and saying good night to his mother feels like a gift he doesn’t deserve.

He leaves the next morning after Winona makes them both coffee. She offers him money but he says no, promises he’ll be fine, and even if he runs out of gas money he can take buses or trains or – do something. He ignores the fact that “do something” means resort to stealing, but it’s the life that he ended up in and he can’t deny the truth of it for too long. She kisses his cheek despite the tender bruises and then looks at him and says, “Be safe,” in a quiet murmur that breaks Jim’s heart.

He’s considering crossing the Canadian border and heading north when he finally buys a junk phone from a family owned store, a pay up-front flip phone with oversized buttons.

“How much will one hundred dollars get me?” he asks, and the man at the counter is happy to assist him despite the yellowing bruises on his face and down his neck. There are ones on his back and his hips, his knees and his ribs, but at least everyone doesn’t see those. 

He pays for the phone and heads out, figuring if he doesn’t use it he can always trash it. He texts McCoy GPS coordinates out of nothing but the adrenaline the idea gives him, and he settles in at a cheap motel for the night.

He gets a response from an unknown number – not McCoy’s – that says _dont txt me @ that #_ but gives no actual reply to the suggestion that had been in the previous text. Jim rolls his eyes and texts back the name of the motel and the suite number, and waits.

It’s sometime in the middle of the night, Jim drifting in bed, that there’s a knock on his door. Jim wakes up faster than he can ever remember doing before and scrambles to the door, hurrying to unhook the lock and pull it open.

“What the hell are you thinking?” Bones growls as he pushes himself into the motel room and locks the door behind him. Jim tries to hide his grin and ends up stifling a yawn as well, sitting back on the bed and rolling onto his stomach. He grabs a pillow and rests it under his head, looking at McCoy’s enraged face. “I told you to stay under, I told you to pretend like you were dead, I…”

“I don’t remember you actually saying any of those things,” Jim says with a scowl. “I’m so lonely.”

“So you pay for a prostitute, not shout, ‘hey world, I’m alive, come and kill me for real this time’,” McCoy snaps, starting to pace the room. Jim watches him, smiles because he’s wearing bootcut jeans and heavy boots underneath them, a t-shirt that only sort of fits him and a ragged brown leather jacket. His hair is messy and his eyes are tired. “I can’t believe I’m out here. Uhura’s going to kill me if she finds out I left base.”

“Is she going to find out?” Jim squeezes the pillow.

“Not if I can help it. And if she does, I already have a good lie planned.” McCoy turns and looks at Jim, arms folded over his chest.

“Come here.” It’s hard to look at McCoy, who has bruises as well though they’re fading, and not want to drag him down and keep him on the bedspread for the rest of the night – maybe longer. Likely much longer.

“No way,” McCoy snaps, but when he actually looks at Jim again, his face softens. Jim stares at the bruises and he’s glad to see that McCoy’s nose is still straight. He’d be pretty unhappy if he had ruined his perfect nose and made it crooked.

“Please. Come here.” McCoy seems to hesitate for a moment before stepping over to the bed and sitting next to Jim. Jim wraps his arms around McCoy’s waist and keeps his hold loose, pressing his nose into McCoy’s side.

“Careful,” Bones murmurs, “still tender.”

“So she believed you?” he mumbles against the fabric of McCoy’s jacket. He smells good, not quite like cologne, but something more distant – probably whatever he washed with last. It isn’t familiar but it is McCoy, regardless of everything they’ve been through.

“She believed me. I don’t know if Spock knows, but I imagine he does. That you’re dead, I mean,” he clarifies, and then looks down at Jim, who peers up at him through his arms. “You trashed your old phones?”

“Yeah,” Jim murmurs, shifting and playing his fingers along McCoy’s thigh. “A while ago.”

“What have you been up to?” Bones asks softly. It’s genuinely curious and it’s kind as well, kind in a way that Jim hasn’t heard from anyone, let alone Bones, in quite some time. He thinks about the tension between them in the days following up the confession – the weeks, even. He regrets everything about it.

“I did something stupid,” he admits, “but don’t worry – hey. Don’t look at me like that.” McCoy’s expression twists and he presses his lips together instead and sighs as Jim pulls himself up so he’s sitting on the bed instead, an arm still wrapped around McCoy’s waist, keeping him close. “That’s a little better, yeah.” He pauses, wants to lean in and kiss McCoy before he messes it all up again. “I visited my mom.”

“You what?”

“You said I could see her.”

“Yeah but not – not now,” McCoy says, voice strained. “I didn’t think you’d do that.” He looks away, eyes dark.

“She’s not going to tattle on me, Bones. I just. It’s been years. Years since I saw my mother. She’s the only real family I have left. And it was _good_ , McCoy, it was so good. It was like the pieces just fell together again.”

McCoy’s hand finds his hair, and Bones is carding his fingers through it in a slow, stroking motion. Jim closes his eyes and scoots forward, adjusting again and resting his head on McCoy’s lap, legs curled up to his stomach.

“I think I need to tell you something,” Bones whispers, his hand resting on the back of Jim’s neck. “You might want to be sitting up for this.”

Jim situates himself and takes McCoy’s hands in his own. “What’s up?”

“I need you to know the reason I can’t leave.”

Jim raises an eyebrow but frowns when he sees the absolute desolation in McCoy’s face. “Hey,” he murmurs, can’t help himself from leaning forward and brushing his nose along McCoy’s cheek. “It’s okay. It’s fine.”

“It’s not, it isn’t,” McCoy counters. “I’ve never told anyone this.”

Jim settles down, stroking his thumb over McCoy’s knuckles. “Leave where?” he asks, frowning.

“Archetype. That’s what _we_ call ourselves. I think Uhura said you were…Underground, or something like that.” Jim nods and gives a breathy chuckle, then waits, looking at McCoy’s dark expression. “Before Uhura found me, my father was ill. Terminally ill. It was only a matter of time, before…well. There wasn’t anything anyone could do about it. No surgery, no medicine. I had gone through six years of med school but I wasn’t a doctor yet and I didn’t know if I ever would be. I used to want to be a surgeon but there’s such a – there’s danger.” McCoy pauses for a long moment, and Jim watches the distance in his eyes and his tight jaw. “My father, he asked me, he asked me one day…His voice was weak, croaky, and he was in – a lot of pain. And he asked me to put him in a coma, a medically induced coma, something that would trick the doctors.” McCoy swallows and Jim feels his stomach drop. McCoy’s voice is shaking now and he refuses to look Jim in the eye. “I did it.”

Silence.

“And then I told my mother to pull the plug.”

The air conditioning unit kicks on but neither of them moves.

“You helped your father find peace,” Jim says, and he firmly believes it. There isn’t a shadow of doubt in his mind.

“I assisted in his _suicide_. I let him die. They found a cure nearly two years later. He would have probably – he would have passed before that, I know, but who knows, he could have survived, there could have been a miracle, a break through, and I…”

“Bones, please,” Jim whispers, picking up his hands and cradling McCoy’s face. “I’m sure that must have been…terrible. And I know you must feel guilty because I can only imagine. There are things that…we do for our families. Even when our families are fucked up.”

“My mother didn’t get to say good-bye to him,” Bones murmurs. “I was the only one who really got to see him in his last minutes.”

Jim gathers McCoy in a hug. “I don’t…understand,” he says after a moment, with McCoy’s fingers digging into the back of his dirty shirt. “It sounds like…a mistake. What does this have to do with you? With what’s happening now?

McCoy is silent for a moment and Jim lets their breathing come together, and it’s beautiful in a poetic way. He waits, and then McCoy says, “Uhura knows. God knows how she found me, how she found out, but she does. That’s how,” he takes a deep breath and stops and Jim holds everything in his chest. “That’s how she recruited me.”

“She hung that over you like a goddamn curse?”

“It _was_ my curse,” he murmurs, pressing his face into Jim’s neck. “It was the weakest point in my life. I don’t like to admit it, but…she wielded it against me, expertly. I don’t know if she has that much power anymore, considering how long ago it was, but…it still stings. I still remember. And if she does leak it, I could still go to jail.”

“She has proof? Like, hard evidence?”

“Yeah, I’m…pretty damn sure.” McCoy pauses and then sits up, frowning at Jim. “You said something before – about _your_ father.”

“We’re daddy issues central, huh?” Jim murmurs and chuckles. Bones just glares at him. Jim doesn’t really like the attention suddenly refocused on him and he shifts on the bed, sitting back so that they’re not touching anymore. McCoy’s eyes are sharp and Jim manages to look him straight on before he goes on. “I don’t know much. He was a recruit for Underground, they told me when they first found me. Of course, that was a long time ago…” He frowns for a minute, considers. McCoy’s face doesn’t change, stoic and silent. “As far as I know, he was undercover when he met my mom. She found out…after she was pregnant with me. They let her live, God knows why. Maybe they wanted to recruit me from the beginning, maybe that was part of some weird plan they had, but – it was quiet. I think her knowing about my dad made us distant. I think she saw something dark in me, even if she loved my dad, even if he loved her.”

He looks away from McCoy whose stare is powerful. “They killed your father,” he says, “How did they kill him, Jim?”

“He was…I assume it’s a set-up now, but I never – I never bothered to figure it out. He was killed, it was ruled an accident. He rode derby cars for a living, fast and furious, you know?” He looks up to double-check McCoy’s face, see if his eyes faltered or he grimaced but nothing, no change, only gentleness in his bruised skin. Jim still wants to kiss him, but instead he forges on. “Apparently he was kind of a Cali hero, that’s what my mom used to say. She described him as strong and kind and – political. That’s the word she used. Dunno why, but I was always kind of fascinated.”

“They killed him because you were born?” McCoy picks up a hand and strokes Jim’s cheek and besides the hand in his hair, it’s the first sign of true affection from Bones and it makes Jim light up despite the feelings of loneliness. He leans into it against everything that tells him otherwise.

“They killed him because my mom was pregnant, yeah. Ironic that it happened on the day of my birth, who knows if it was an accident or not.” Jim snorts, shaking his head. “It couldn’t have been Spock, I don’t know who was…you know, in charge at the time. My dad was an idiot to think he wouldn’t be found out.” He shrugs and sighs, and McCoy’s hand rests on his jaw, his thumb sliding along his chin before reaching up to his cheekbone and eventually resting at the edge of his jawline, tilting his face up. Jim looks at McCoy and presses his lips together. Then, “I’m tired of running away. I know they think I’m dead but that just amps it all up. I still had – family, there. It was a second home, and it fit me, even in the worst of times.”

“Those people _tortured_ you,” McCoy growls. They’re face to face now, and McCoy moves his hand to grab Jim’s upper arm and hold tight, and it’s no longer supportive. Jim winces. “Sorry,” Bones whispers, letting go of him. He drops his hands onto his lap and looks down. 

“They raised me,” Jim corrects. “It’s all I’ve known since I was twenty-one and I was so adrift then. It wasn’t always great but…eventually I felt safe. They loved me. There are people there who loved me, despite everything.”

“They threatened you and punished you for your father’s misdeeds.”

“I made my own choices.”

“The threat of death doesn’t leave you open to _choice_ , Jim,” McCoy grits out.

“Then what about you?” Jim whispers back, voice urgent and scratchy, close to rage. “What’s your excuse? Just because you haven’t actually killed anyone yet, you’re exempt for the evils of your side? As if there are really sides? Nyota Uhura, or whatever her goddamn name is, is just as evil and narcissistic as this Spock guy, except she’s just a little more subtle about it.”

Bones scoffs and shakes his head and there’s another beat of silence between them before he says, “I’m not making an excuse. And…no. You’re right. I’m not exempt, and neither are you. But they don’t own you. Uhura doesn’t own me either, Jim. You helped me see that.”

Jim pauses. “You think you killed your father, don’t you? And you think that makes you capable of murdering people for real?”

“No,” says Bones with a soft sigh. “I don’t think that. I did for a time. I had a lot of guilt. It fucked with who I was, made me obedient. Sometimes I think I was a lapdog more than anything else. Uhura said she trusted me but – I don’t know.” He shakes his head. “I’m not dangerous to her.”

“You have information,” Jim says, “you’re a danger to them both.”

“Spock’s going to want me dead.”

“No, won’t,” Jim snorts, “he wanted me dead to begin with. We discussed this.”

“Mm,” McCoy hums and presses his forehead to Jim’s. They stay like that, still for a moment. It’s nearly peaceful. “What are we going to do, Agent Kirk?”

“Can I call you Doctor McCoy?”

“I think that counts,” Bones laughs and Jim slips forward to kiss the corner of his mouth. McCoy tilts his head to catch Jim’s mouth, reaching up to cup the back of his neck and pull him in closer.

“Ow,” Jim murmurs when McCoy’s teeth scrape his still sore split lip.

“My bad,” McCoy whispers. “Couldn’t really stop myself.”

“You never do.”

The question remains unanswered and Jim lets out a breath.

“I need to get in touch with Carol.”

-

The issue between them now is a gaping hole of doubt – as much as McCoy tries to ignore it, it keeps leaking back into his head, a reminder that he can’t stay, that they can’t remain the same. He and Jim are gentle with each other at first, and McCoy is able to make believable excuses for the first day or so, but it’s then that he’s starting to doubt Jim’s so-called “master plan”.

“Look,” Jim says as McCoy shakes his head. “Look, you’re not listening to me. I trust her with my life.”

“Yeah, and she thinks you’re _dead_! What’s she gonna do when she finds out, huh? You think she can protect you from Spock, really? You think calling her goddamn home phone is going to get you home – you’re not E.T. Jim, and this isn’t some fucking sci-fi bullshit where we’ll be safe in a couple of days if we just law low.”

“You’re not _listening_ \- ”

“God forbid I be worried about you!” The silence is sharp and they fall into stagnancy.

Jim is sitting on the bed they shared the last night and he takes a deep breath, looking up at McCoy who’s pacing the room. “You need to trust me. If you don’t trust me, then that’s the end of it. There’s nothing to be talked about, nothing to be discussed. You can make your own decisions, but you’ll have to make them outside of…this. Whatever it is.” There’s something like steel in his voice and McCoy glances at him before looking away again. Jim means it. McCoy can’t blame him. 

McCoy glares at him, nostrils flaring and fists clenching. He’s unconvinced – but the argument isn’t exactly something he wants to fight about right now, nonetheless.

“Okay, fine. Let’s say I do trust you, which is a goddamn hypothetical, anyway – why should I trust her? She may care about you, love you even, but that doesn’t mean her position is any less compromised. Uhura’s on my back, Jim, she’s going to want to know what I’ve been up to soon. She isn’t going down without a fight and I’m not sure…I’m not sure I can find a good enough reason to fight her, anyway.” He hates to say it, and he hates the way that Jim’s expression crumbles.

But Jim also pulls himself back together in a brief moment, his eyes retaining their focus. He swallows and sits up straight, pushing his shoulders back. “Carol is the one who initially made me doubt you.” McCoy twitches and narrows his eyes. “She warned me that Spock was trying to use me as bait, to get to your lady, whatever – she was scared because of what she had found. About their pasts. About Spock and Uhura and their love affair or whatever the fuck that makes them so goddamn obsessed with each other.”

“She could have been…doing a lot of things, Jim.”

“Yeah, well, I could have killed you a couple of times but I didn’t take her word for it completely. And she didn’t say _they’re sending in someone to ruin your life_ she just told me to watch my back. She looks out for me. She always has.”

“Why? What makes you so certain that she’s someone you can – trust?”

“Because she’s the first person who told me the truth.”

McCoy raises an eyebrow.

“About my father. She’s the one who told me. I remember, sitting in the back of that car with her, being carried away, and I didn’t know what was in my future but she told me the truth. She promised me – and she never went back on that promise.” Jim pauses to take a breath. “Don’t you have anyone, Bones? Someone on the inside you trust, despite the fact that they’re working for an organization you don’t _really_ believe in?”

McCoy hesitates. “There’s one person,” he says, thinking of Hikaru Sulu, who he hasn’t spoken to in a very long time. “But I still wouldn’t contact him after my own _death_ , Jim.”

“Just let me try.”

McCoy breaks, sinking down onto the bed next to Jim, who looks at him with wide eyes and a hopeful expression. “I can’t win this argument, can I?” he asks weakly and Jim lets out a laugh that’s lined with hysteria. McCoy watches as Jim tugs his phone out and dials a number he clearly knows by heart, holding the phone to his ear.

McCoy tries not to focus on the half a conversation, only hears snippets of Jim’s voice as he closes his eyes and pays attention to his own breathing instead. “Yes, yes it’s me – it’s me, Carol….Don’t – wait! …Get to a safe….can you….for me? God, you’re…I’m so sorry….never supposed to…I’d rather be, now…Spock…Carol….There’s too much at…you were right, you know.” McCoy rouses from his dreamlike state when Jim’s voice changes pitch just slightly. “I’m so sorry. I wish I could make a better…Carol, please, stay calm.” McCoy watches Jim talk to his friend. “Please, you have to get out of there. And when you’re out of there, call me. You know what to do.”

Jim closes his phone and looks at McCoy. “I told you she’d come through,” he says, grinning. “It’s better than nothing.”

“So tell me,” McCoy says, “what are we gonna do?”

“You already asked that question. What do _you_ think the answer is?”

“Get out of this shithole motel and lie on the Caribbean beach?” He crawls up the bed, kicking off his shoes and lying down on the stiff mattress. “Move out of the country and get plastic surgery to change our faces and body types? Get married in Paris, France?”

“Not Paris, Texas?” Jim says, following McCoy and resting down next to him, draping an arm over his chest. They lie together and breathe together until McCoy picks up a hand to touch Jim’s hair, stroking through it again. “You like my hair,” Jim murmurs, pressing his mouth to McCoy’s jaw. “I’ve noticed.”

McCoy tugs at the strands near the nape of his neck and Jim makes a soft noise. “Too bruised for sex?” Jim asks and McCoy laughs, really laughs, for the first time in a while.

“I think we need to get to somewhere a little cleaner, then I’ll think about it,” McCoy says, and kisses Jim’s head. “If your friend is going to come through for us, you should get some sleep. We both should. We can talk about it later, okay?”

“Good,” Jim whispers.

-

Jim grabs Carol Marcus around the waist and pulls her off the ground, spinning her in a circle. He forgets, for a moment, that McCoy is watching them as Carol squeaks and grabs onto his shoulders, laughing into his neck. They hug each other for what feels like forever, and Jim breathes in Carol’s light perfume and the familiar fruity scent of her shampoo.

They only pull apart when Bones clears his throat.

The situation isn’t exactly everything Jim had hoped – they’re in a McDonald’s somewhere down in Texas, settled in the back of the relatively crowded fast food joint. Jim feels bad for making McCoy antsy by being himself a little uptight waiting for Carol, but as soon as he saw her everything had changed.

And though Bones is showing severe signs of distrust (his posture is all wrong, and he’s on the other side of the booth – he had slid out to go to the bathroom fifteen minutes ago and had sat down across from Jim instead of next to him when he got back), he doesn’t make any rash movements. Jim is grateful for that because he can’t exactly _blame_ McCoy for being anxious.

Carol sits next to him, squeezing his hand under the table. Her hair is messier than usual, clipped back by bobby pins, and her make-up isn’t on point. Jim also notes her wearing jeans and casual sneakers, and a button down blouse that is just barely uneven.

He can’t stop smiling and McCoy sips at his Coke with narrowed eyes.

“I told you she’d come,” Jim says, trying to keep his voice low and remove the excitement. “I told you this would work out.”

McCoy chews on the end of his straw and looks between Jim and Carol. Jim stares at him, hopeful that Bones will cool off and lose the scary face. He reaches across the table, ignoring McCoy’s twitch when their hands touch.

“I see,” Carol murmurs, though it’s hardly audible in the busy restaurant. Jim had suggested it, realizing that the crowded place was the best for staying hidden and concealed, and it’s true that no one has spared them a glance except for a three year old being dragged out by their parent. “So this is the man who infiltrated your life and said he killed you.”

Carol’s voice is cold and Jim ducks his head, smacking her on the thigh under the booth. He glares at her and she rolls her eyes, frowning at him before looking back at McCoy.

“Sorry, let me correct myself,” she says, and Jim glances up to catch McCoy raising an eyebrow at her but smirking as well, a sign of good will. “You’re the man Jim is so head over heels for.”

McCoy chuckles for the first time since they got here, and some of the tension dissolves. “She’s not wrong,” he says, picking out a couple of cold fries from the cardboard container. “On both accounts.”

“ _Bones_ ,” Jim stresses. “Why can’t we play nice? We’re all here for a reason, yeah? Me?”

Carol shakes her head but she’s smiling and Jim takes that as a good sign, letting his shoulders slump back. “You got out,” he says, smiling at Carol. “How are you doing?”

Carol gives a small groan and rests her head on the back of the seat. “It’s dangerous,” she admits, crossing her arms over her chest. “The beauty of it is…being raised like that, you learn things. You learn the inside and you learn who your friends are and who your enemies – your real enemies – are.” She shoots Jim a meaningful look and then turns her eye to McCoy. “We all know,” she says slowly, “how easy it is to fall into a mess. And we all know that we’re human.” She turns her hands out, palms facing upward in a gesture that’s unfamiliar to Jim’s eyes. “Doctor Leonard McCoy. I haven’t been able to learn much about you, except that Jim insists you saved his life. I’m grateful for that.”

McCoy’s expression remains stoic, lips pressed together but eyes blank, his breathing steady. He picks up fries, pops them in his mouth, chews and sips his Coke. “You’re welcome,” he says in a slow drawl that again almost reaches poison. There’s quiet and Jim waits it out, unsure whether to expect the two to bond or end up in a catfight. 

McCoy picks up a hand and reaches out to Carol. She seems to hesitate for a moment, one eyebrow raised and her thin lips pressed into a tight line, but then she finally takes his hand in a gentle grip and they both smile. Jim lets out a sigh, shoulders slumping.

“So, Miss Marcus,” McCoy says in a gruff voice, “What exactly can you offer us?”

“Well,” Carol says, glancing nervously to the front of the restaurant and folding her hands on her lap. “Let’s just say that I’m rogue. As odd as that is,” she says with a short laugh, “since I’m not exactly on the same level of you at least,” she addresses Jim. “Not sure about the Doctor. You seem to be an enigma.”

“Guess Uhura trusts me more than I imagined.” McCoy sounds like he doubts it.

“Uhura isn’t safe,” Carol snaps suddenly, eyes sharp. She slouches back when Jim and McCoy both give her alarmed looks. “I’m just – I’m just saying that, she can’t be trusted.” She strains her voice and reaches out again across the booth. “You’ve worked with her and I’m sure you know the extent of her…terror. I believe she’s got a stronger foothold on what she _does_ \- what she and Spock both do – than Spock does. That leaves him to be vulnerable and makes her a target, thus why he tried to draw her out by using Jim as bait.” She lets out a heavy sigh. “Of course, Spock can’t be trusted either, but at least I’ve known that for a while. It’s a petty battle between two people trying to maintain more power.” Jim and McCoy share a glance before Carol rattles on. “I told Jim this once and he might have told you, but I’ll reiterate. The organizations we both work for are utterly illegal – but that doesn’t mean they aren’t part of something legal. The FBI, the CIA, American and non-American organizations alike, have been involved with both Spock and Uhura’s sides. It’s about money and it’s about winning.”

“Winning what?” McCoy interrupts. “I worked with Uhura for years and I still never quite understood what her motive was, but I didn’t question it.” He shakes his head and Jim keeps his eyes trained on Bones, waiting for him to fall into anger or frustration. “She’s cunning, but who’s to say she’s as smart as she thinks she is?”

“No one,” Carol agrees, “but there’s a lethality that can’t exactly be broken. And McCoy – are you going rogue, as they say? They may well hunt you down and kill you.” She glances over at Jim. “And they’re going to piece together the puzzle,” she murmurs, squeezing Jim’s arm. He blinks at her and frowns. “They’re going to find out.”

“That I’m alive,” he finishes and lets out a sigh. “I knew I couldn’t just slip under the radar forever,” he admits, feels oddly misplaced in the conversation. “But I don’t care anymore. I’m not going back.”

“No,” Carol says, nodding, “you’re not. Neither am I. So the question lies with Agent McCoy.”

He swallows. Jim watches McCoy but keeps his face devoid of emotion the best he can. If McCoy were to choose to return to Uhura, that would be his decision, and as much as the thought hurts, Jim would let him go. There’s only so much they can do, after all, and McCoy has every reason to be afraid and to protect himself.

“I’m staying with you. Or bust,” Bones finally says, and Jim can’t help the grin that spread along his tired face. He wants to reach across the table and grab McCoy, kiss him and tell him it’s the best day of his life. As Jim grins, McCoy turns his head and scoffs. “I’m not going to leave you to run away alone, and I think – it needs to end.” He looks back and gives Carol a sharp glance before settling his gaze on Jim. “Uhura and Spock, whatever reign they have going on, whatever battle they’re fighting each other on, it may not have been our war, but it sure as hell is now. And it’s too late for me to pretend to be free of any guilt. I’m part of it, too. And even if I could – stay on the inside, I’m sure Uhura would have me killed. By this point there’s no questioning it.”

“You should still have a choice,” Jim murmurs, and he can feel Carol watching them both, her eyes wide and curious. Jim pushes back the self conscious part of him that wants to clear his throat and ask to leave, and instead reaches out and puts his hands over McCoy’s. It’s symbolic, maybe, even if only of Jim’s desperate and pathetic attraction and devotion. The vulnerability in himself is even worse, he thinks, squeezing McCoy’s fingers.

“I do have a choice,” McCoy says, though in a voice so quiet that Jim only hears it because he’s leaning over the table. “And you’re the choice I’m making now.” He drops his eyes and Jim manages to glance over at Carol quickly and catch her soft smile. He’s glad now that McCoy had sat across from him, because he isn’t sure he’d be able to contain himself if they were in any closer proximity.

“So,” Carol says, interrupting the moment. Jim and Bones pull apart from each other in a sharp movement like a string being snapped and turn their attention to her. She’s still smiling, although she looks nervous. “So where do we go from here?”

McCoy and Jim look at each other. “Anywhere,” Jim says and nods.

“I think that’s a good start.”

**Author's Note:**

> [Detox / Retox](http://8tracks.com/erikaheather/detox-retox); a mix by [Erika](http://8tracks.com/erikaheather/)


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